“I will tell,” he at length cried, desperately. “The man you want is there.”
His trembling finger indicated Pennington, who turned a shade paler, but sat composedly enough. Scarlett’s sword point fell; he turned upon Pennington and saluted him in a formal, military fashion, a satirical smile curling his moustache points upward.
“Sir,” said he, “I am most pleased. I will not say that I expected as much, but I can say that I am not at all surprised.”
Ezra watched the spy curiously. He saw him swallow once or twice in an effort to speak. But finally he managed to resume control of his tongue.
“You have found me out, then,” said he, and he smiled in a sickly fashion. “I was interested to see just how long it would take you.”
For all his speech faltered, his eyes were steady enough to threaten the innkeeper for betraying him. But the man returned the look defiantly.
“I’ll not be sworded to death, and you sitting by at your ease, never lifting a hand,” he declared sullenly.
Scarlett turned quickly upon the man.
“You have done your share to the furthering of the acquaintance of this gentleman and myself, and I am obliged to you. So now, back to your scullery and let us hear none of your protestations.”
The innkeeper went quickly enough; he had had a taste of the adventurer’s quality, and clearly desired no more of it. After he had vanished into his kitchen, Scarlett sheathed his blade, struck an attitude with his feet very wide apart and hooked his thumbs into his sword belt.