“The old fellow seems angry,” chuckled Longsword. “I suppose his employer hauled him over the coals for letting us in that night.”
“There is no use in our trying again to-night at any rate,” said Ethan. “Are you cold, Shamus?” he continued after they had turned away and retraced their steps along the Rue Constantine.
“I am, faith!” answered the Irish soldier.
“There is a bright, clean looking coffee house across the way. Suppose we step in and take the chill off with some coffee and a little snack—say a buttered roll or something of that sort.”
“A very thoughtful suggestion. Sure, nothing would please me better.”
They crossed the street and entered the coffee house. Each had a cutlass hanging from his belt, and their foreign air at once attracted the attention of the people in the place. But they sought out a small table at the far end of the room and seating themselves quietly ordered and sipped their coffee and nibbled at the white rolls that were brought with it.
“A very respectable looking place,” said Longsword as his eyes roved about, examining its patrons.
“Yes,” answered Ethan. “And the coffee is excellent.”
As they talked in low tones upon various topics, the door opened and three men entered the room. One of them was queerly huddled up in a huge cloak; the others were lowering looking fellows, apparently of the class of cut-purses or bravos which infested the city at that time. They took seats at a side table near the door.
“There are three bla’guards, or I never saw any,” declared Longsword to Ethan as he looked at the newcomers. “Sure and ye can see villainy written all over them.”