Sir David’s face expressed sufficient astonishment.
“Who the thunder’s this?” said he, stopping blank on the threshold.
“This is the affable Mr. Fern, Blythewood, who comes to surrender himself into our hands. The frost, he says, has demoralized his gang.”
“Do you scent a trick? Have a care, Tuke.”
“Sir David,” quoth the other, mindful of his prisoner’s face, “how is our company disposed?”
“Why, man—here are we four; Captain Luvaine and Jim are on guard; Lord Dunlone is above, and the boy, a sterling lad, keeps watch at the window.”
Mr. Fern slurred an irrepressible start into a change of position.
“Did you speak?” said Mr. Tuke politely.
The man muttered something in the nature of a negative.
“Oh!” said the gentleman—“I thought perhaps you fancied you had put your head into a hornet’s nest. Is that you, Whimple? Were you successful?”