"Who then?" he demanded.
"Ormerod! 'Tis Harry Ormerod, the Jacobite refugee!"
Murray snapped his fingers to Tom, the negro, who had been a silent witness to our conversation. In an instant he stood beside us, his baleful yellow eyes glaring at me.
"Is this the man who came with Master Juggins to the hearing before the Lords of Trade?" snapped Murray.
"He de man, massa," Tom answered in a husky voice that had a snarl in it.
"You are sure!"
"Yes, massa."
"Tom doesn't make mistakes," remarked Murray with a gesture of dismissal to the negro. "May I ask who you are, sir?" he addressed me.
"I suppose you may," I replied coolly; and with a sense of relief I ripped the bobbed scratch-wig off my head and tossed it into the sea. "Does that help you at all?" I inquired of de Veulle.
He stared back at me, his face all drawn with hatred.