“That sounds like the spy, Hague Simon, him whom they call the Butcher, and his wife, Black Meg,” said Dirk. “Adrian, you must have seen these people, was it they?” For a moment Adrian considered whether he should tell the truth; then, for certain reasons of his own, decided that he would not. Black Meg, it may be explained, in the intervals of graver business was not averse to serving as an emissary of Venus. In short, she arranged assignations, and Adrian was fond of assignations. Hence his reticence. “How should I know?” he answered, after a pause; “the place was gloomy, and I have only set eyes upon Hague Simon and his wife about twice in my life.” “Softly, brother,” said Foy, “and stick to the truth, however gloomy the wood may have been. You know Black Meg pretty well at any rate, for I have often seen you—” and he stopped suddenly, as though sorry that the words had slipped from his tongue. “Adrian, is this so?” asked Dirk in the silence which followed. “No, stepfather,” answered Adrian. “You hear,” said Dirk addressing Foy. “In future, son, I trust that you will be more careful with your words. It is no charge to bring lightly against a man that he has been seen in the fellowship of one of the most infamous wretches in Leyden, a creature whose hands are stained red with the blood of innocent men and women, and who, as your mother knows, once brought me near to the scaffold.” Suddenly the laughing boyish look passed out of the face of Foy, and it grew stern. “I am sorry for my words,” he said, “since Black Meg does other things besides spying, and Adrian may have had business of his own with her which is no affair of mine. But, as they are spoke, I can’t eat them, so you must decide which of us is—not truthful.” “Nay, Foy, nay,” interposed Arentz, “do not put it thus. Doubtless there is some mistake, and have I not told you before that you are over rash of tongue?” “Yes, and a great many other things,” answered Foy, “every one of them true, for I am a miserable sinner. Well, all right, there is a mistake, and it is,” he added, with an air of radiant innocency that somehow was scarcely calculated to deceive, “that I was merely poking a stick into Adrian’s temper. I never saw him talking to Black Meg. Now, are you satisfied?” Then the storm broke, as Elsa, who had been watching the face of Adrian while he listened to Foy’s artless but somewhat fatuous explanation, saw that it must break.