"Your ship?" she asked sharply.
"Yes," he answered, as the innkeeper came to tell them that their
sleigh awaited them.
It was snowing now, and a whistling, fitful wind swept down the
valley of the Vistula from Poland and the far Carpathians which made
the travellers crouch low in the sleigh and rendered talk
impossible, had there been anything to say. But there was nothing.
They found Barlasch asleep where they had left him in the inn at
Thorn, on the floor against the stove. He roused himself with the
quickness and completeness of one accustomed to brief and broken
rest, and stood up shaking himself in his clothes, like a dog with a
heavy coat. He took no notice of D'Arragon, but looked at Desiree
with questioning eyes.
"It was not the Captain?" he asked.
And Desiree shook her head. Louis was standing near the door giving
orders to the landlady of the inn--a kindly Pomeranian, clean and
slow--for Desiree's comfort till the next morning.
Barlasch went close to Desiree, and, nudging her arm with
exaggerated cunning, whispered--
"Who was it?"
"Colonel de Casimir."
"With the two carriages and the treasure from Moscow?" asked
Barlasch, watching Louis out of the corner of one eye, to make sure
that he did not hear. It did not matter whether he heard or not,
but Barlasch came of a peasant stock that always speaks of money in
a whisper. And when Desiree nodded, he cut short the conversation.
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