The House on the River by Fred M. White

The fine afternoon had turned to wind and storm, and the volleying rain on the window-pane rendered the dining room of the house on the river a haven of rest not to be despised by fugitives from justice who might easily be in a far worse case. A cheerful fire burnt on the hearth, the dinner things had been washed and put away, and the two friends were seated on either side of a blazing fire talking over the events of the afternoon.

But Quint was giving signs of being uneasy and dissatisfied. Sooth to say, the confinement of the last week or two was getting on the nerves of a man who had been accustomed all his life to all sorts of vigorous outdoor exercise. True, a certain amount of progress had been made. They were evidently on the edge of moving events, but all this underhand diplomacy was repugnant to a man of action like Michel Quint.