And on the third day
his expressionless black eyes lighted on feet not shod in Poland, or
France, or Germany, nor yet in square-toed Russia.
The owner of these far-travelled boots was a lightly-built dark-
faced man, with eyes quietly ubiquitous. He caught the interested
glance of the cobbler, and turned to look at him again with the
uneasiness that is bred of war. The cobbler instantly hobbled
towards him.
"Will you help a poor man?" he said.
"Why should I?" was the answer, with one hand already half out of
its thick glove. "You are not hungry; you have never been starved
in your life."
The German was quick enough, but it was not quite the Prussian
German.
The cobbler looked at the speaker slowly.
"An Englishman?" he asked.
And the other nodded.
"Come this way."
The cobbler hobbled towards the Kneiphof, where the streets are
quiet, and the Englishman followed him. At the corner of the Kohl
Markt he turned and looked, not at the man, but at his boots.
"You are a sailor?" he said.
"Yes."
"I was told to look for an English sailor--Louis d'Arragon."
"Then you have found me," was the reply.
Still the cobbler hesitated.
"How am I to know it?" he asked suspiciously.
"Can you read?" asked D'Arragon. "I can prove who I am--if I want
to. But I am not sure that I want to."
"Oh! it is only a letter--of no importance. Some private business
of your own. It comes from Dantzig--written by one whose name
begins with 'B.
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