“No, it’s to demand that you give me an immediate consignment in ballast from this port.”
“Impossible!” cries Olins shortly; then whispers: “Why do you want it?”
“Because I’m suspected of smuggling.”
“What, that lace last night?” mutters the Fleming, his face growing set.
“No lace,” says Chester shortly.
“A—ah! You must leave Antwerp on the tide,” whispers Olins, a bead of perspiration on the center of his forehead. “But where can I send you?”
“Get me papers to Amsterdam.” This is the first place that comes into Guy’s head.
“Very well, they shall be obtained. But,” adds the merchant nervously, “without a charter it would look very suspicious!”
“I’ll get you the charter,” cries Guy, a sudden idea flashing through his brain.
“From whom?”