“Do many strolling players come this way?”
“Not for weeks and months, sometimes! The old patroon ordered the schout to arrest them if they entered the wyck.”
“Is Vanderdonkville in the wyck?” asked the land baron quickly.
“No. It was separated from the wyck when Rickert Jacobus married––”
“Never mind the family genealogy! Have the coach ready at nine––”
“To-night?”
“This morning,” replied Mauville, lightly. “And, meanwhile, put this to bed,” indicating Scroggs, who was now snoring like a bag-pipe with one arm lovingly wound around a leg of the library table.
The care-taker hoisted the attorney on his broad shoulders, his burden still piping as they crossed the hall and mounted the stairway. Having deposited 121 his load within the amazing depths of a Dutch feather mattress, where he lay well-nigh lost to sight, but not unheard, the wacht-meester of the steyn left him to well-earned slumber and descended to the kitchen.
At the appointed hour, the land baron, freshly shaven, not a jaded line in his face, and elastic in step, appeared on the front porch before which his carriage was waiting.
“When shall I expect you back?” asked Oly-koeks, who had reappeared at the sound of his master’s footsteps.