"We know all about her!" the others answered, wearily.
"But Mrs. Andre reminds me of an interesting story. And you are always looking for stories. In January, 1779, my great grandfather was serving on the staff of Benedict Arnold. As you know, it was he, John Stuyvesant DePuyster, my namesake, who rescued the colors so gallantly at Saratoga—who fought at Germantown—who almost starved at Valley Forge—who rescued General Greene at the risk of his life—who was wounded with two bullets in his flank at the battle of Trenton—who served so brilliantly under Mad Anthony Wayne—who—"
The others looked at each other furtively, with misery indicated on every feature.
One of them, the great autograph collector, Robert Hooker, nervously twitched his fingers. He seemed in agony, and looked around, evidently for signs of relief.
—"Who received a medal for gallantry at Monmouth," chronicled the voice in a perfectly satisfied tone,—"who rebuked Colonel Tarleton—who was praised even by the British commander Lord Howe—who sat at the court-martial of Andre—and who—"
"Was a traitor to his country!" said Hooker, quietly.
Everyone looked uneasy. They all hated scenes. But at any rate, it was a fortunate escape. A duel with bloodshed would be better than DePuyster's stories!
"Sir," he returned hotly, "an accusation such as this has never been made against our family!"
"Then I shall be the first to make it."
"It is outrageous,—a damnable, lying statement, and you've got to prove it I I'll force it back into your throat, you slanderer! You've got to prove it, I say, Sir!"