In passing the letter, the man made a scarcely perceptible movement of the hand which might have been a signal.
“No,” said D'Arragon, “I do not belong to the Tugendbund or to any other secret society. We have need of no such associations in my country.”
The cobbler laughed, not without embarrassment.
“You have a quick eye,” he said. “It is a great country, England. I have seen the river full of English ships before Napoleon chased you off the seas.”
D'Arragon smiled as he unfolded the letter.
“He has not done it yet,” he said, with that spirit which enables mariners of the Anglo-Saxon race to be amused when there is a talk of supremacy on the high seas. He read the letter carefully, and his face hardened.
“I was instructed,” said the cobbler, “to give you the letter, and at the same time to inform you that any assistance or facilities you may require will be forth-coming; besides...” he broke off and pointed with his thick, leather-stained finger, “that writing is not the writing of him who signs.”
“He who signs cannot write at all.”
“That writing,” went on the cobbler, “is a passport in any German state. He who carries a letter written in that hand can live and travel free anywhere from here to the Rhine or the Danube.”
“Then I am lucky in possessing a powerful friend,” said D'Arragon, “for I know who wrote this letter. I think I may say he is a friend of mine.”