But Tarrant's lips curled back from his teeth like a dog's.
"Do you think," he said to Weir, "I don't know it was I who stood out in all the dirty weather, while you rode safe in shelter? I've struck the blows you've planned; and I've taken the hard, open word from all who cared to give it, so that no eye would turn in your direction. And now you all but tell me you are done with me."
Blake arose and pushed him back into his chair.
"He has told you nothing as yet," said the freebooter. "Keep still for a bit, and maybe he will."
Weir, now that there was silence, showed no haste to speak but sat enjoying the sips he took of the brandy and watching the blaze on the hearth fluttering under the sudden downward gusts of wind. But finally he spoke, and it was in a way that was cold and measured.
"A year ago, if you remember," said he, "we were called together somewhat hurriedly to advise in a dangerous matter."
"The affair of Magruder?" said Blake.
"Yes. How much the man had ferreted out we'll never know; but his panic for his money drew two sharp perils upon us. I placed the managing of the matter in your hands," and he looked at Tarrant. "I recall that my instructions were that you be cautious but final. And you blundered from the first. It would not have been so bad had you never heard of Anthony Stevens and so had no knowledge of his character. But Blake's tales, sent to us from the South, had told you of the manner of a man he was; you approached him with your eyes wide open, and yet you tried to browbeat him, to bundle him out of your way, like snapping your fingers."
"Well," said Tarrant with his ready sneer. "You have had a deal of time to use your own methods upon him. And I note that he is still in the city, waiting to do us what mischief he can."
"He is here," said the captain quietly, "but the mischief he has done is little. My methods have wasted his efforts; and in time," with a gesture, "I hope to do more."