Every inflection of the speaker’s voice and his whole attitude, however, indicated his complete disbelief in anything of the sort. It was plain to the boy that the soldier of fortune was convinced that he and Pennington were there by prearrangement. But Ezra did not speak; Pennington, his face a shade paler, sat watchfully observant.
Scarlett continued to glance from one to the other of them with amused toleration. It was as though he had detected them in a sort of child’s play by which they had hoped to hoodwink him.
“Sit you down,” he finally invited Ezra. “But over here,” pushing out a chair, “where we can see you more readily.”
Ezra sat down, and Scarlett waved his hand toward Pennington, the smile still curling his moustache.
“I do not know either of your names,” he said, “but,” to Ezra, “here is a gentleman whom you are unacquainted with, of course,” and he burst into a laugh, “but whom I could have diverted vastly had I chosen to tell him of our little misadventure upon the road, two nights ago.”
Surprise and incredulity came into the face of Pennington; but he strove to hide his agitation from the watchful eyes of the adventurer.
“Is it possible,” he ejaculated, “that this is the lad with the pistol—he,” eagerly, “whom you sent on with the message?”
“None other,” said Scarlett, smiling, “and since you are unacquainted, I take pleasure in making you known to each other.”
One of Pennington’s hands passed over his face; it was trembling, and, like his countenance, was pale. He spoke hastily to Ezra, trying hard to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
“You must have had a most extraordinary experience,” remarked he. “And did you succeed in delivering this message at the house of this gentleman—ah,” as though trying to recall the name, then giving up the attempt, “the gentleman with the foreign name?”