The host and his helpers seemed surprised; two parties of travelers to stop at the Burgundian King in one evening was an unusual thing, indeed. In a short time the arriving horsemen had dismounted, been bidden welcome, and came stamping into the supper room. The night was cold and had turned to snow. The men wore heavy cloaks wound about them and fur caps pulled low over their eyes; they crossed to a side of the room which was not swept by the door of the inner room, and here removed their mufflings. “A cold night, landlord,” said one of them, in perfect French. “It is, indeed, monsieur,” answered the host of the Burgundian King. “And it is growing colder.” “We’d like supper and beds,” said the guest. “Yes, monsieur, with great pleasure. We are rather crowded to-night, but the King can accommodate you, I’m sure.” Supper was provided for the newcomers, and they ate it with much low grumbling. “O’Moore would be pleased to hear that,” smiled Ethan. “No doubt,” answered the captain. “But listen.” He held up one warning finger and bent forward so that he might be able to hear the better. The conversation between those in the other room was very low; but Ethan fancied that now and then he detected an English expression. “Why,” whispered he, “they seem to be talking English.” “That is what I thought,” said the captain. “Can you make out what they are saying?” Ethan listened for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” said he. “But oddly enough I imagine that I recognize familiar voices among them. There, do you hear that one rather lighter than the rest? It sounds to me something like the voice of a boy whom I knew in Philadelphia. His name was Wheelock, and his family were Tories.” John Paul Jones appeared to be greatly interested. “I had fancied the same thing myself,” admitted he. “There is one voice among them that I’ve thought sounded strangely like--whom do you think?” Ethan leaned over and grasped his arm tightly. “Not Blake!” whispered he. The captain of the Ranger nodded. “Yes, Blake,” he answered. “Then you too, have thought the same! It must be he.” “I’ll see in a moment,” and the boy started to his feet. “Sit down,” said John Paul Jones. “Before we betray our presence here let us consider what it might mean.” “You are right, sir.” Ethan took his seat once more, and waited for the other to go on. “I think we spoke of a directing mind that Siki would probably meet in France--the plotter that commanded him to enlist on the Ranger and endeavor to steal the secret dispatch.” “We did.” “I think that the Lascar and his master have met, and that they have not yet given up hope of succeeding.” Just then a voice from the supper room spoke out sharp and full. “Siki did well, Blake. And if you had given him any aid my plans would have carried.” “You see,” whispered John Paul Jones, “I am right. Siki is there, and that was the voice of the master.”