My father rose slowly to his feet.
"Yes, he is my son, Murray. It is neither his fault nor mine that he is also your grandnephew. As to his name, Robert Juggins was a better man than you or I, and you can not inspire my son against me by hinting at hidden chapters of my early life. He knows that I was deluded into serving the Stuarts, and lived to learn that country comes before king. We were talking of that before you entered."
The man in the doorway nodded his head.
"I seem to remember that became a topic of some interest to you—after the Jacobites hounded you from France and the Hanoverians drove you from England. Ah, well, I can commend a philosophical adaptability in face of adversity. 'Tis a trait I have had occasion to practise, myself."
He let the door swing to, and stepped behind me to the left side of the table, where there was a vacant chair.
"I would not seem discourteous," he remarked suavely. "I note another old friend, Ormerod—or perhaps I should say an old enemy. Permit me to observe, Corlaer, that you wear well with the years—as well as myself, indeed."
Peter squeezed a hickory-nut between his forefinger and thumb and looked up vacantly into Murray's face.
"Ja," he said.
"Lest you should be tempted by some misapprehension," pursued Murray, "I may inform you that I have every reason to suppose myself safe from any measures you might take against me. I know well the dangerous swiftness of wit Peter conceals beneath that flat face of his, and I should not like to see him hurt——"
"Ja, you bet," giggled the Dutchman.