Bodegat pouted his lips, and sniffed.
“Do you carry your brown bread in ciclaton and your cider bottles in silk?” he asked.
“God’s mercy, sirs, what’s there to quarrel with in the stuff?”
Dubois exchanged a glance with Bodegat.
“Let us see what you have in that cloth.”
Bertrand made a show of hesitation.
“Open it, I say.”
“But, sirs—”
“Open it, or—” and at a sign from Dubois half a dozen spears were slanted at Bertrand’s body.
Persuaded, he fumbled at the knots, flung out his arm suddenly, holding the surcoat by a corner.