Szmul giggled in triumph, and Father Constantine grew suspicious. These two had met before.
They trooped into the office which stood at the end of a passage, connecting it with the back of the house in such a way that people could go in and out without passing the hall or the living-rooms. Never in his life had Szmul entered from the large hall; but his elation was not due to that. Four troopers escorted their officer and mounted guard behind him, stiff and pompous as at a review.
Ian stood in the middle of the room, a large place, lined with shelves and cupboards where accounts and reports were kept. He looked very like his mother, the priest thought, well bred, dignified, king of himself. The four troopers clinked their heels and went through the contortions common to saluting Prussians; even the surly subaltern put hand to helmet. Szmul hugged the shadow of the door. Father Constantine went beside his old pupil, that fond notion of his uppermost.
Ian returned the visitor's greeting with a bow; then he saw Szmul. "I'll send for you if I want you," he said in the dry tones he used when giving orders.
"That Jew is with me," blurted the Prussian.
Ian's gray eyes met his with such cool determination that the other shifted uneasily.
"He is my servant." This in frozen tones; then, to Szmul: "You heard me?"
Szmul looked appealingly at the officer, won no support by word or glance and slunk out. Ian's gaze returned to the Prussian.
"Your business?"
"You have food supplies stored here." This angrily, in accusation.