“Yes, it means us,” repeated John.
“Where is Craeke?”
“At the door of your cell, I suppose.”
“Let him enter then.”
John opened the door; the faithful servant was waiting on the threshold.
“Come in, Craeke, and mind well what my brother will tell you.”
“No, John; it will not suffice to send a verbal message; unfortunately, I shall be obliged to write.”
“And why that?”
“Because Van Baerle will neither give up the parcel nor burn it without a special command to do so.”
“But will you be able to write, poor old fellow?” John asked, with a look on the scorched and bruised hands of the unfortunate sufferer.