“Ramiro? Ramiro?” repeated Meg reflectively, “that means Oarsman, doesn’t it, and sounds like an alias? Well, I’ve lots of acquaintances in the galleys, and he may be one of them. What does he want, and what are the terms?” Hans leant forward and whispered for a long while. The other two listened in silence, only nodding from time to time. “It doesn’t seem much for the job,” said Simon when Hans had finished. “Well, friend, it is easy and safe; a fat merchant and his wife and a young girl. Mind you, there is no killing to be done if we can help it, and if we can’t help it the Holy Office will shield us. Also it is only the letter which he thinks that the young woman may carry that the noble Ramiro wants. Doubtless it has to do with the sacred affairs of the Church. Any valuables about them we may keep as a perquisite over and above the pay.” Simon hesitated, but Meg announced with decision, “It is good enough; these merchant woman generally have jewels hidden in their stays.” “My dear,” interrupted Simon. “Don’t ‘my dear’ me,” said Meg fiercely. “I have made up my mind, so there’s an end. We meet by the Boshhuysen at five o’clock at the big oak in the copse, where we will settle the details.” After this Simon said no more, for he had this virtue, so useful in domestic life—he knew when to yield. On this same morning Adrian rose late. The talk at the supper table on the previous night, especially Foy’s coarse, uneducated sarcasm, had ruffled his temper, and when Adrian’s temper was ruffled he generally found it necessary to sleep himself into good humour. As the bookkeeper of the establishment, for his stepfather had never been able to induce him to take an active part in its work, which in his heart he considered beneath him, Adrian should have been in the office by nine o’clock. Not having risen before ten, however, nor eaten his breakfast until after eleven, this was clearly impossible. Then he remembered that here was a good chance of finishing a sonnet, of which the last lines were running in his head. It chanced that Adrian was a bit of a poet, and, like most poets, he found quiet essential to the art of composition. Somehow, when Foy was in the house, singing and talking, and that great Frisian brute, Martin, was tramping to and fro, there was never any quiet, for even when he could not hear them, the sense of their presence exasperated his nerves. So now was his opportunity, especially as his mother was out—marketing, she said—but in all probability engaged upon some wretched and risky business connected with the people whom she called martyrs. Adrian determined to avail himself of it and finish his sonnet.