In the kitchen, amid otherwise pleasing surroundings, their nostrils were offended by an extraordinary reek of stale wine, presently traceable, it seemed, to a postilion in dilapidated uniform, who was ensconced within the glow of the hearth.
The man's high collar and braided jacket were open for the freer intercourse of throat and can; he winked impudently at Geiger-Hans, and had a truculent roll of the eyes for Steven.
"Interception of the King's mail—lèse majesté—crime of the first category—punishment capital," observed he, with some pride, in answer to the young man's astonished look.
"The punishment includes all accessory to the act," suggested Geiger-Hans, pleasantly.
"Not the victim of coercion," stated the postilion, with indifference.
He turned his tankard upside down as a hint to the hostess. She, poor thing, seemed to regard these doings as a hare may the trap that clutches her pad.
"The gentlemen are upstairs," she said, and wiped the dampness from her lip with the corner of her apron.
The gentlemen upstairs continued to make their presence uproariously patent.
"The Brotherhood are apparently having a little argument," quoth Geiger-Hans, with a slight smile.
"For heaven's sake, Onkel, go up and quiet them, if you can! We shall have the patrol upon us!" groaned the hostess.