“The sex, the sex!” he murmured, turning aside to mop his bald head with a napkin; “well, it’s only their pretty way, they will have their little joke. Hullo, there is someone knocking at the door.”
“And mind how you open it,” said Meg, becoming alert. “Remember we have plenty of enemies, and a pike blade comes through a small crack.”
“Can you live with the wise and remain a greenhorn? Trust me.” And placing his arm about his spouse’s waist, Simon stood on tiptoe and kissed her gently on the cheek in token of reconciliation, for Meg had a nasty memory in quarrels. Then he skipped away towards the door as fast as his bandy legs would carry him.
The colloquy there was long and for the most part carried on through the keyhole, but in the end their visitor was admitted, a beetle-browed brute of much the same stamp as his host.
“You are nice ones,” he said sulkily, “to be so suspicious about an old friend, especially when he comes on a job.”
“Don’t be angry, dear Hans,” interrupted Simon in a pleading voice. “You know how many bad characters are abroad in these rough times; why, for aught we could tell, you might have been one of these desperate Lutherans, who stick at nothing. But about the business?”
“Lutherans, indeed,” snarled Hans; “well, if they are wise they’d stick at your fat stomach; but it is a Lutheran job that I have come from The Hague to talk about.”
“Ah!” said Meg, “who sent you?”
“A Spaniard named Ramiro, who has recently turned up there, a humorous dog connected with the Inquisition, who seems to know everybody and whom nobody knows. However, his money is right enough, and no doubt he has authority behind him. He says that you are old friends of his.”
“Ramiro? Ramiro?” repeated Meg reflectively, “that means Oarsman, doesn’t it, and sounds like an alias? Well, I’ve lots of acquaintances in the galleys, and he may be one of them. What does he want, and what are the terms?”