"Ha, it will be a master stroke!" he cried, in French. "A master stroke—if only I can get this Dave Morris in my power! Flat Nose did well to tell me."
"Perhaps we shall burn our fingers," growled Jacques Valette, who was none the brighter for having drank several glasses of liquor that afternoon.
"No, no, Jacques! Not if we keep our wits about us. I must find out why they have made him their prisoner!"
"And what think you to do then?" asked Valette, exhibiting some interest at last.
"Think? Can you not see? If Pontiac will only turn the youth over to our tender mercies, we shall hold all of the Morrises in our power."
"I see not how."
"Jacques, you are growing stupid. 'Tis as clear as glass. We are becoming hard pressed. Glotte has disappeared and Bergerac has deserted us and gone over to the enemy—"
"He should have his neck wrung for him!" muttered Valette.
"I agree. He has most likely told them everything. The English are in power—"
"But not for long, Jean, not for long!"