Katherine's. He stamped his feet with the cold and blew on his hands. A plank had been flung across the gap between the boat and the dock and De Baas, immediately recognizable from his hawk-like visage, pranced across it. "Mes cheres,” he exclaimed, grasping Henshaw and Kit to his perfumed person. “I have brought him." A second man had crossed the plank and stood beside De Baas, a slight figure, his face shadowed by the wide-brimmed hat. Despite himself, Kit shivered, feeling a dark malevolence in the stillness of the man. He felt as if the unseen eyes bored into his soul. Kit had killed men but it had always been in the heat of battle or self-defence, never in cold blood. He wondered what sort of person would undertake such a calling. "Monsieur Debigné, my English friends Henshaw and Lovell." The Frenchman bowed but did not speak. Henshaw cleared his throat. “There is an inn nearby where our friends wait. I suggest we adjourn there and we can advise you of the plan." Gerard and Vowells had taken the private parlor.
