The Laughing Cavalier by Baroness Orczy (best 7 inch ereader .TXT) 📕

the street after the others had departed: then only did the three of them turn and walk off in the direction of the Oude Gracht.

For some reason, as unexplainable as that which had guided their conduct at the Lame Cow, Beresteyn and Stoutenburg, quite unconscious of the cold, elected to follow.

Was it not Chance that willed it so? Chance who was busy forging a chain and who had need of these two men’s extraordinary interest in a nameless adventurer in order to make the links of that chain fit as neatly as she desired.

At the bottom of the Kleine Hout Straat, where it abuts on the Oude Gracht, the three philosophers had again paused, obviously this time in order to take leave of one another. The houses here were of a peculiarly woebegone appearance, with tiny windows which could not possibly have allowed either air or light to penetrate within, and doors that were left ajar and were creaking on their hinges, showing occasional glimpses of dark unventilated passages beyond and of drifts of snow heaped up against the skirting of the worm-eaten, broken-down wooden floors. They were miserable lodging-houses of flimsy construction and low rentals, which the close proximity of the sluggish canal rendered undesirable.

The ground floor was in most instances occupied by squalid-looking shops, from which fetid odours emanated through the chinks and cracks of the walls. The upper rooms were let out as night-lodgings to those who were too poor to afford better quarters.

Diogenes with all his swagger and his airs of an out-at-elbows gentleman evidently was one of those, for he was now seen standing on the threshold of one of these dilapidated houses and his two friends were finally bidding him good night.

By tacit consent Beresteyn and Stoutenburg drew back further into the shadow of the houses opposite. There appeared to be some understanding between these two men, an understanding anent a matter of supremely grave import, which caused them to stand here on the watch with feet buried in the snow that lay thick in the doorways, silently taking note of every word spoken and of every act that occurred on the other side of this evil-smelling street.

There seemed to be no need for speech between them; for the nonce each knew that the other’s thoughts were running in the same groove as his own; and momentarily these thoughts were centred into a desire to ascertain definitely if it was the tallest and youngest of those three knaves over there who lodged in that particular house.

It was only when the fat man and the lean one had finally turned away and left their comrade on the doorstep that the watchers appeared satisfied and nodding silently to one another made ready to go home. They had turned their steps once more toward the more salubrious and elegant quarter of the city, and had gone but a few steps in that direction when something occurred behind them which arrested their attention and caused them to look back once more.

The Something was a woman’s cry, pitiful in the extreme: not an unusual sound in the streets of a prosperous city surely, and one which under ordinary circumstances would certainly not have aroused Stoutenburg’s or Beresteyn’s interest. But the circumstances were not ordinary; the cry came from the very spot where the two men had last seen the young stranger standing in the doorway of his lodgings and the appeal was obviously directed toward him.

“Kind sir,” the woman was saying in a quavering voice, “half a guilder I entreat you for the love of Christ.”

“Half a guilder, my good woman,” Diogenes said in response, “ ’Tis a fortune to such as I. I have not a kreutzer left in my wallet, ’pon my honour!”

Whereupon the two men who watched this scene from the opposite side of the street saw that the woman fell on her knees, and that beside her there stood an old man who made ready to follow her example.

“It’s no use wearing out your stockings on this snow-covered ground, my good girl,” said Diogenes good-humouredly. “All the kneeling in the world will not put half a guilder into my pocket nor apparently into yours.”

“And father and I must sleep under the canal bridge and it is so bitterly cold,” the woman moaned more feebly.

“Distinctly an uncomfortable place whereat to spend a night,” rejoined the philosopher, “I have slept there myself before now, so I know.”

Seemingly he made an attempt to turn incontinently on his heel, for the woman put out her hands and held on to his cloak.

“Father is crippled with ague, kind sir, he will die if he sleeps out there tonight,” she cried.

“I am afraid he will,” said Diogenes blandly.

In the meanwhile, Pythagoras and Socrates, who evidently had not gone very far, returned in order to see what was going on, on their friend’s doorstep. It was Pythagoras who first recognized the wench.

“Thunder and lightning,” he exclaimed, “ ’tis the Papist!”

“Which Papist?” queried Diogenes.

“Yes, gentle sirs,” said the woman piteously, “you rescued me nobly this evening from that awful, howling mob. My father and I were able to go to midnight mass in peace. May God reward you all. But,” she added naively, “ ’twas no good preventing those horrid men from killing us, if we are to die from cold and hunger under the bridge of the canal.”

All of which was not incomprehensible to the two men on the watch who had heard a graphic account of the affray in Dam Straat as it was told by Pythagoras in the taproom of the Lame Cow. And they both drew a little nearer so as not to lose a word of the scene which they were watching with ever growing interest. Neither of them attempted to interfere in it, however, though Beresteyn at any rate could have poured many a guilder in the hands of those two starving wretches, without being any the poorer himself and though he was in truth not a hardhearted man.

“The wench