“Yes, sir.” The man looked at him in a fidgety sort of way. He seemed to dread something. “The master, sir,” he recommenced, “is—is—you’ll pardon me, sir—in a bad temper to-night. Shall I announce you?”
But here Pennington intruded himself.
“If I may be so pushing,” said he to Ezra, “I will take that upon myself. There are some trifles that had perhaps better be gone over before he sees you.”
Ezra caught Scarlett’s warning look, but paid no attention. He knew full well that it was the spy’s intention to be forehanded with him; he realized that the man desired to place the case before the gathering in his grandfather’s house in as evil a light as possible.
But he was careless in the matter; he felt that it made no difference what Pennington said. He was in Boston; he was in a fair way, perhaps, of discovering much that would be of help to the cause of liberty. How he was to escape, finally, was a matter for the future. The present was to be spent in garnering facts; the future must take care of itself.
“Very well,” said Ezra, readily enough. “Do you speak to him and prepare him.”
Pennington followed the serving man up the wide hall; some hangings were drawn back and both disappeared.
“More and more strange do you grow to me,” said Scarlett, as he seated himself in a cushioned chair. “I thought you wise enough to know that a first voice in a cause is usually the winning one.”
“When one has little interest in a thing,” returned Ezra, “it matters little who wins. My purpose here is not to see who makes the best impression on my grandfather and his friends.”
Scarlett said nothing to this, but merely shook his head and began to look about him.