“We have searched them thoroughly,” said the officer, “and we’ve come across now, sir, to search your place—what do they call it?—the Den.”
Aleck glanced at his uncle’s face, and could see the blood gathering in his cheeks.
“Search my house, sir?” he said. “Are you so mad as to suppose that I should entrap one of the King’s officers?”
“Possibly, sir,” replied the visitor, “on the quid pro quo principle, to hold on ransom. We’ve got some of your friends; you have snatched at one of ours.”
“This is the first time, sir, that I’ve been led to suppose that I was a friend to the smugglers. Eh, Aleck?”
“What nonsense, uncle!” cried the lad, indignantly.
“Oh, indeed, young gentleman!” said the officer, turning upon him sharply. “No friends of yours neither?”
“Certainly not,” cried Aleck.
“Ho! Then, perhaps you will be good enough to explain how it is that the gardener here is the smugglers’ chief assistant in signalling, spying, and warning them?”
“He isn’t,” said Aleck, sharply.