Vrej, by all appearances, had been out of pokey for a while—long enough to get some clothes made, and put on a few pounds. He had, in sum, gotten himself altogether ready for this audience. "Monsieur Shaftoe, on that evening in 1685 when you rode your horse into this ballroom and lopped this chap’s hand off—" he cocked his head at Étienne "—the Lieutenant of Police came to the apartment in the Marais where my family had given you lodgings—"