“Yes; even after that.”
“Well,” said I; “I hope you may never have to wear it, Mr. Castner, since you dislike it so warmly.”
“Zounds, man!” he cried, leaping from his chair as if I had pricked him with a sword’s point, “do you know everything?”
Of course, I modestly disclaimed the charge, and begged him to sit down and be at his ease again; but he began to walk the floor of the small snuggery where I had my supper served, biting his lip and giving a very fair imitation of a man too deeply enraged to be able to swear it off easily.
Naturally, I was curious to know how I had unwittingly stirred the mud in the depths of his soul-pool, but I would not question him. Apart from having no special claim upon his confidence, I knew he would tell me of his own accord when the rage-pot became hot enough to boil over.
But the way in which he began to tell me was with a sober question.
“Mr. Page,—Captain Page, I should say,—for the honor of the king’s service you must advise me how you came to know a thing which, I am solemnly assured, has never been mentioned outside of Sir Henry Clinton’s cabinet. If we have traitors that near to us, we must know it.”
Now I was able to laugh at him and once more to beg him to sit down and to compose himself.
“I know nothing; less than nothing, Lieutenant Castner,” I protested. “What did I say to stir you so?”
“You do know!” he insisted. “I saw it in your eyes when you wished that I might not have to wear the uniform of Mr. Arnold’s Loyal Americans. I must know how you found out!”