"There is an honest man I wot of in Amsterdam," broke in a third voice, one which was curiously high-pitched and dulcet in its tones, "an honest dealer of Judaic faith, who would gladly give a couple of thousand for the bulb and ask no impertinent questions." "Say but the word, Diogenes ..." reiterated the gruff voice solemnly. "And the bulb is ours," concluded the third speaker in his quaint high-pitched voice. "And three philosophers will begin the New Year with more money in their wallets than they would know what to do with," said he of the laughter-filled voice. "'Tis a sound scheme, O Pythagoras, and one that under certain circumstances would certainly commend itself to me. But just now...." "Well?" queried the two voices--the gruff and the high-pitched--simultaneously, like a bassoon and a flute in harmony, "just now what?" "Just now, worthy Socrates and wise Pythagoras, I have three whole florins in my wallet, and my most pressing creditor died a month ago--shot by a Spanish arquebuse at the storming of Breda--he fell like a hero--God rest his soul! But as to me I can afford a little while--at any rate for to-night--to act like a gentleman rather than a common thief." "Bah!" came in muffled and gruff tones of disgust, "you might lend me those three florins--'twere the act of a gentleman...." "An act moreover which would effectually free me from further scruples, eh?" laughed the other gaily. "The place is dull," interposed the flute-like tones, "'twill be duller still if unworthy scruples do cause us to act like gentlemen." "Why! 'tis the very novelty of the game that will save our lives from dullness," said Diogenes lightly, "just let us pretend to be gentlemen for this one night. I assure you that good philosophers though ye both are, you will find zest in the entertainment." It is doubtful whether this form of argument would have appealed to the two philosophers in question. The point was never settled, for at that precise moment Chance took it on herself to forge the second link in that remarkable chain of events which I have made it my duty to relate. From across the Grootemarkt there, where stands the cathedral backed by a network of narrow streets, there came a series of ear-piercing shrieks, accompanied by threatening cries and occasional outbursts of rough, mocking laughter. "A row," said Socrates laconically. "A fight," suggested Pythagoras. Diogenes said nothing. He was already half-way across the Markt. The others followed him as closely as they could. His figure which was unusually tall and broad loomed weirdly out of the darkness and out of the fog ahead of them, and his voice with that perpetual undertone of merriment rippling through it, called to them from time to time.