Nat’s face was sternly set and there was a look in his eyes that was unmistakable.
“No,” replied he, “I have no more doubts now. Ezra Prentiss is all that I have suspected him to be. But in this he has reached the end of his rope. I shall keep silent no longer.”
“Good!” exclaimed the Porcupine, his stiff crest of hair seeming to grow more erect with excitement. “But,” lowering his tone, his manner changing quickly, “even now there is something queer about it all.”
Nat looked mutely at the lad for an explanation; the dwarf went on:
“There was a plan laid between Ezra and this naval officer to steal the message of Mr. Adams, was there not?”
“Their talk would make it seem so, at all events,” replied Nat.
“Then why was the plan not carried out? The matter lay in their own hands. If Ezra Prentiss wanted the message taken, why did he remove it from the saddle-bags?”
“That is more than I can say,” answered Nat, in a low, brooding voice. “It has a very unusual look. Something happened, perhaps, to show the thing not to be desirable at the time. Otherwise I cannot account for it.”
They sat in the Orange Street coffee-house for some time talking over the matter. Nat had often before noticed the good sense of the dwarf and the intelligent expression of his opinions. But to-day both were so noticeable that in sheer surprise the young mountaineer finally said:
“Porcupine, how old are you?”