“Are you in the habit of reading love-stories?” he asked curiously.
“No,” said the Sage slowly, “I’ve never read many genuine love-stories; I don’t care much for them; they’re not solid enough.”
“You’ll see the day when you’ll care to read nothing else,” said Henry, melodramatically.
Perceiving that the plotters were looking at him intently, he said hurriedly, for he did not wish these boys to guess his secret, “You haven’t told me yet when the plot is to come off.”
“We never settled that ourselves; but if to-morrow evening is pleasant, let us go then,” said Will.
“We have had so many unfortunate expeditions in the night that I think we had better set some other time,” the Sage observed.
“The evening is the time, of course;” said Henry decisively. “We can take care of ourselves, I think, if we try. To-morrow forenoon I must disguise myself and go and see this old house with some of you; and then, as we are coming back, if the rest of you could come up with Marmaduke, I could hide, and look on while he ‘finds’ the letter. Have you settled that point yet?”
“Yes,” said Charles, “we planned to fix the letter in a bottle, and fling it into the river a few rods above him. The river, you know, flows past the house; so that when he reads the letter he’ll think the prisoner threw the concern into the river, and that it floated down. Marmaduke will think that is romance itself.”
“I understand,” Henry commented; “and when we write the letter we can say something to that effect. Now, what do you say to mixing up a priest in the plot?”
“A priest?” they asked, at a loss to guess his intent.