“The wagon? I have a wagon, yes. One bought for me by my servant.”
“In Brussels?”
“As it happens, in Brussels.” The paleness of Gordon’s face was accentuated now, and his eyes held cores of dangerous flame. “And because I am an English milord, and bring a wagon from Brussels, you assume that I am a robber?”
“You were driven from your own country,” menaced the other. “Do you think we hear nothing, we Swiss? This canton knows you well enough! Stop those horses!” he snarled, for the great coach, ready for its trip to the town, was rolling down the driveway. The syndic sprang to the horses’ heads.
At the same instant the two strangers who had been in the overturned boat, now with clothing partially dried, came from the house.
“There!” The syndic pointed to the ornate vehicle. “Do you deny this is the wagon described in that newspaper, and that you absconded with it from Brussels?”
The older of the two strangers turned quick eyes on Gordon, then on the wagon. Before Gordon could reply, he spoke in nervous French:
“I beg pardon. I was the owner of that conveyance, and the one who sold it.”
“Maybe,” said the functionary, “but you did not sell it to this person, I have reason to believe.”
“No, yonder is the purchaser.” He pointed to a prosaic figure at the steps.