'"
"Barlasch," suggested D'Arragon quietly, as he took from his pocket
a paper which he unfolded and held beneath the eyes of the cobbler.
It was a passport written in three languages. If the man could
read, he was not anxious to boast of an accomplishment so far above
his station; but he glanced at the paper, not without a practised
skill, to seize the essential parts of it.
"Yes, that is the name," he said, searching in his pockets. "The
letter is an open one. Here it is."
In passing the letter, the man made a scarcely perceptible movement
of the hand which might have been a signal.
"No," said D'Arragon, "I do not belong to the Tugendbund or to any
other secret society. We have need of no such associations in my
country."
The cobbler laughed, not without embarrassment.
"You have a quick eye," he said. "It is a great country, England.
I have seen the river full of English ships before Napoleon chased
you off the seas."
D'Arragon smiled as he unfolded the letter.
"He has not done it yet," he said, with that spirit which enables
mariners of the Anglo-Saxon race to be amused when there is a talk
of supremacy on the high seas. He read the letter carefully, and
his face hardened.
"I was instructed," said the cobbler, "to give you the letter, and
at the same time to inform you that any assistance or facilities you
may require will be forth-coming; besides . . . " he broke off and
pointed with his thick, leather-stained finger, "that writing is not
the writing of him who signs.
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