Mellis was waiting in the shadow of the stairway leading to the gallery around the yard. The old man’s eyes did not fail to see her. He looked straight at Martin as though he had weighed him from shoe-latchet to cap.
“Next door, my lad. ‘Little Spain’ is the place for you, I gather.”
Martin knew nothing of “Little Spain,” and his soul took no offense.
“This is the ‘Crossed Keys’?”
“It has been called that these fifty years.”
“Is there a Peter Swartz in the house?”
The old man blinked his bright eyes, glanced right and left, and poked his nose into Martin’s face.
“Of the name of Valliant?”
“I am Valliant.”
“Tsst! Not so loud! I am at your service. Come this way, Master Valliant, and you, madam. Up the stairway; yes—yes—the gentleman is here; to the right, if you please, and down that passage. Let me pass, sir; I know the door.”