She fumbled in the pocket of her skirt and drew out a crumpled scrap of paper.
“I snapped it out of his hand in the kitchen. It was for grabbing it that he catched me by the hair o’ the head. I saw him glowerin’ at it as soon as ever he came intil the light.”
Donald Ward took it from her hand and read—
“The house of Felix Matier, an inn at the far end of North Street, to be known easily by the sign of Dumouriez which hangs before the door. Felix Matier is + + +.”
He passed it without comment to Matier, who read it and laughed.
“They have me marked with three crosses,” he said. “I’m dangerous. But what do they mean by it. How do they come to know so much about me?
“‘Ken ye aught of Captain Grose Igo and ago.
Is he amang friends or foes? Iram, coram, dago.’
“Who set the dragoons on you?” said Donald. “That’s the question.”
“By God, then, it’s easily answered,” said Matier. “I’ll give it to you in the words of the poet—
“‘Letters four do form his name.
He let them loose and cried Halloo!
To him alone the praise is due.’