He had hardly more than spoken when the door was flung open, and Master Turnbull stood before them.
CHAPTER XII.
THE REAL IRA.
“Excuse me, lieutenant,” he said looking at the leader of the little party. “I think I left my knife here, and as it is a valuable one, I came back for it.”
There was no question but that he had heard Ira’s remark, and it was equally evident he knew who the young scout really was. He must also have understood how dangerous was his position, yet he spoke as calmly as if he had suddenly happened upon a party of friends, rather than enemies.
While Late and Joe stood motionless in bewilderment, Ira showed himself fully a match, both in coolness and politeness, for the spy.
“We have seen nothing of the weapon, Master Turnbull,” he replied, “but perhaps it is here. Come in, and we’ll help you find it.”
“Thank you, lieutenant,” the fellow replied as he entered and advanced to the corner where he had been sleeping. “It should be here,” he continued, stooping down to look for it. “Yes, I have it,” he cried a moment later, and came forward holding a beautiful dagger in his hand. Passing it to Ira, he asked in a tone of pride:
“Did you ever see anything finer than that?”
The scout gazed at it admiringly. The scabbard was of fine leather, curiously embroidered with threads of gold. The hilt was silver, and on it the letters “A. T.” were engraved within a wreath of myrtle leaves and flowers; the blade was of finest steel.
“A gift from my lady-love,” the owner explained with a laugh. “Do you wonder I valued the toy enough to come back after it? I carry it in a pocket in my waistcoat, as an extra weapon for a special time of need. Somehow it slipped from its hiding-place last night, and I did not discover it until I was a half-mile down the trail. Return it to me, please, and I will rejoin my companions.”