He smiled again, this time almost supplicatingly. “And you are Americans, yes?”
“Yes, we told you that.”
“I know, I know. Will you take a message for me in Herrovosca, if you can get to it? But if you cannot go yourselves will you write it to someone I will tell you?”
“Is it likely to get us into trouble?” I asked.
“Trouble?” he shook his head so protestingly, so innocently, that I knew he was lying. “Trouble? Oh, no, gentlemen, not possible.” And then he stopped and thought for a moment. “Wait, only, please,” he said, and was gone for a few seconds. When he reappeared he reached down through the hole, and gave me a folded piece of paper. His arm was covered with a loose brown sleeve of rough material, but the hand was smooth and white and the nails were polished. The hand and the sleeve did not match at all. I took the paper and turned it over. There was nothing on the outside.
“Open it,” he directed, still smiling ingratiatingly, “it is instructions that will admit you to the presence of the Queen Yolanda. My message is to her.”
“Is this the message?” I asked. It looked too short.
“No,” he said. “The message is for you to tell her. I do not wish to write it on paper. Perhaps someone would find it, then it might make you trouble. You will tell the Queen—h’m—there is no need, perhaps, to tell her anything, except that I am here, and I wrote that paper. Only when you see her, tell her how I look. See, carefully, and that will be enough. Yes, gentlemen. You will do that?”
“Yes,” I said. “If we are able to get to the Queen we will certainly tell her about you, but don’t you want to tell us your name?”
“No,” he said, “no. I think I will not tell my name. Only tell her how I look, and if you cannot see her, write to her. It will be enough. À dieu, gentlemen, I will nevaire forget you have help me. I will always be most grateful to you.”