But Ben was silent; he too, so it appeared, was convinced that the man’s presence in the city had an evil meaning. And the Porcupine, as he watched his comrade, felt sure that its possible intent suggested itself to him. Ben stared into the fire, his chin in his hands, and the dwarf heard him mutter:
“No, no! Such a thing is almost impossible. It might enter the minds of the enemy to attempt it; but it could not be carried out, for no American would lend himself to it.”
It was some little time before Ben aroused himself.
“I had almost forgotten Master Morris and the dispatch,” said he as he looked at the coffee room clock. “You get to bed, Porcupine, for there’s no knowing how long I shall be gone.”
He pulled on his heavy coat, and felt of his inner pockets to be sure that his message was safe; then with a parting word to the dwarf, he left the inn. The streets were very quiet at that hour; the stars looked cold and far away; the stones rang under his spurred heel.
There was a light burning behind a curtain in the Morris house.
“He’s home, I think,” said the lad, “and perhaps sitting up, awaiting my return.”
Ben ascended the high stone steps and sounded the knocker gently. There was a pause, then a step was heard in the hall, a bar fell, a chain rattled and the door swung open. To his great astonishment, Ben saw standing before him, a lighted candle above his head, the gentleman who had supped with Livingstone and Hawkins at the inn.
“I desire to see Master Robert Morris,” said the lad.
The other inspected him closely.