“Salut!” he growled, scowling at his boots. “A sailor,” he muttered after a pause. “Good. She has her wits at the top of the basket—that child.”
Desiree was throwing back her hood and looking at her father with a reassuring smile.
“I have brought Monsieur d'Arragon,” she said, “to help us.”
For Sebastian has not recognized the new-comer. He now bowed in his stiff way, and began a formal apology, which D'Arragon cut short with a quick gesture.
“It is the least I could do,” he said, “in the absence of Charles. Have you money?”
“Yes—a little.”
“You will require money and a few clothes. I can get you a passage to Riga or to Helsingborg to-night. From there you can communicate with your daughter. Events will follow each other rapidly. One never knows what a week may bring forth in time of war. It may be safe for you to return soon. Come, monsieur, we must go.”
Sebastian made a gesture with his outspread arms, half of protestation, half of acquiescence. It was plain that he had no sympathy with these modern, hurried methods of meeting the emergencies of daily life. A valise, packed and strapped, lay on the table. D'Arragon weighed it in his hand, and then lifted it to his shoulder.
“Come, monsieur,” he repeated leading the way through Barlasch's room to the yard. “And you,” he added, addressing himself to that soldier, “shut the door behind us.”
With another gesture of protest Sebastian gathered his cloak round him and followed. D'Arragon had taken Desiree so literally at her word that he allowed her father no time for hesitation, nor a moment to say farewell.