“Yes, Mynheer.”
Without further speech the Grand Pensionary and M. de Montbas left the room.
Florent did as he had been directed. With a mechanical intelligence of the hands, leaving free the excited workings of his brain upon what he had just heard and the meaning of it, he put away the papers, neatly, in their various drawers.
He was about, in the same absorbed fashion, to lock the desk, when a sudden, unexpected thought held him still.
What were these papers? Without a doubt valuable to Hyacinthe St. Croix—to William of Orange.
And they lay there before him, at his mercy to read, to copy—to steal.
Prudence no longer restrained him. In the last half-hour he had decided to remain not another day in the service of M. de Witt. He had nothing to gain from the Grand Pensionary.
Yet he stood in the hazy sunlight hesitating, the key in his hand and the open desk before him.
St. Croix would pay him well, but he was not thinking of St. Croix.