“How near were you to the Sorrel Horse Hotel?” asked the Captain, after a brief pause.
“About two streets away, eh George?” said Watson. He had, very naturally, never heard of the Sorrel Horse, and he knew nothing of Lynchburg, but it would be fatal to show any ignorance on the subject.
“Yes, just about two streets away,” agreed the boy.
The men were all sitting near the blazing fire. Suddenly Captain Harris, without saying a word, lifted his right arm and sent his fist flying towards the face of Watson, who sat near him. With an exclamation of anger Watson jumped to his feet, just in time to avoid the blow.
“What do you mean?” he cried, as he glared at his antagonist.
The Captain smiled. He did not seem at all pugnacious now.
“I mean,” he answered, “that I have proved my suspicions to be true. I thought you were not blind—and I find that you still have enough sight left to see a blow when it is coming to you!”
Watson could cheerfully have whipped himself for his blunder.
“Further,” went on the officer, in a politely taunting tone that was very provoking, “I find that neither you nor the boy ever lived in Lynchburg, for the simple reason that there is no Sorrel Horse Hotel in that place, and there never was!”
How nicely had he planned this little trap! And how foolish the two fugitives felt.