“Name?” he said, shortly, although he knew him well enough.
“Foy van Goorl and Martin, his father’s servant, travelling to The Hague with specimens of brassware, consigned to the correspondents of our firm,” answered Foy, indifferently.
“You are very glib,” sneered the sandy-whiskered man; “what is the mule laden with? It may be Bibles for all I know.”
“Nothing half so valuable, master,” replied Foy; “it is a church chandelier in pieces.”
“Unpack it and show me the pieces,” said the officer.
Foy flushed with anger and set his teeth, but Martin, administering to him a warning nudge in the ribs, submitted with prompt obedience.
It was a long business, for each arm of the chandelier had been carefully wrapped in hay bands, and the official would not pass them until every one was undone, after which they must be done up again. While the pair of them were engaged upon this tedious and unnecessary task, two fresh travellers arrived at the gate, a long, bony person, clothed in a priest-like garb with a hood that hid the head, and a fierce, dissolute-looking individual of military appearance and armed to the teeth. Catching sight of young van Goorl and his servant, the long person, who seemed to ride very awkwardly with legs thrust forward, whispered something to the soldier man, and they passed on without question through the gate.
When Foy and Martin followed them twenty minutes later, they were out of sight, for the pair were well mounted and rode hard.
“Did you recognise them?” asked Martin so soon as they were clear of the crowd.
“No,” said Foy; “who are they?”