“There are many such just now,” said Ben, bitterly. “Indeed, Master Quinsey, those given to plotting seem to exceed those willing to fight.”
“Do you know any one of the name of Seaforth?” asked Johnson Quinsey.
“I do,” said Ben. “A young fellow of my own age, and a courier much used by headquarters.”
“Ah, I see!” The man looked at him with sober eyes. “Well, Master Cooper, take care of this young Seaforth, for he is somehow engaged with your enemies. Another thing: Do the words ‘Crossed keys’ suggest anything to you?”
Ben shook his head.
“In some way they, also, are to play their parts, though just how is more than I can say. However, young gentleman, beware of Seaforth and of anything having to do with ‘crossed keys.’ More than that I cannot tell you, and in parting I can only wish you luck.”
Ben grasped the courier’s outstretched hand.
“I thank you,” he said, gratefully. “I understand very well that harm is meditated, for these men have attempted such before; but how they propose to set about it this time is more than I can imagine. However, Master Quinsey, I will keep Seaforth in mind and also the ‘crossed keys.’ Perhaps they will be the beginning of a clearer understanding.”
“I trust that it shall prove so,” said the rider; “and now, good-bye.”
With another hand-grasp the two parted, one walking off among the camp-fires, the other making his way toward headquarters.