“We are quite safe here,” remarked St. Croix easily. “This is M. le Marquis’ house.”
“Ah!” Florent glanced round the small, neat room, with the herbs hanging from the beams, the blue-and-white pottery, the shining brass,—an inn room like a hundred others. “M. le Marquis does it very well,” he said.
“Naturally,” smiled St. Croix. “What was your opinion of the Prince?” he added.
Florent ignored the question.
“I was wondering,” he said slowly, “how the Prince could communicate with any one—he is kept marvellously close.”
St. Croix shrugged his shoulders.
“I said he would contrive,—I think he is as clever as M. de Witt.”
Florent reflected on the words he had heard the Grand Pensionary use that evening to his brother.
“Those about him are all of M. de Witt’s choosing,” he said.
“The Prince might win some—one of them.”