"Aye, by us."
"But these gentlemen—"
"Came last."
The man in the cloak settled the dispute.
"Let them stay," he cried out. "Messieurs, an end of the room for you, and an end for us. Will that content you?"
"If the other room were not a doghole——" I began.
But he interrupted me with an outbreak of the same supercilious arrogance, saying curtly:
"Have I not said it was settled? If I am content, surely you may be," and fell again silent.
"What did I say?" whispered Martin, rubbing his hands that he had at last found confirmation for his tales, "a duke or a simple gentleman, the Sieur Hellewyl, Monsieur de Commines, Monsieur de Vesc; eh, Monsieur Gaspard?"
It was while we were still playing at playing with the dice that the second interruption came. With much politeness but yet more curiosity three further guests were ushered in, and again two of them were hooded like conspirators, but this time with a difference—they were women. Their age or figures no man could guess, so hidden were they, but one was tall, and bore herself with a carriage that suggested lissom activity. The third of their party was as frankly revealed as they were frankly disguised; a sinewy broad-shouldered man, with Soldier written largely on him from head to heel in characters that spoke louder than the weapons at hip and thigh.