“It would seem not,” replied George. “And it would seem that General Putnam was in touch with all the facts and all his movements.”
After this they spoke of the eventful night at Corbie’s tavern. The girl listened, and when he had finished, he saw doubt once more in her eyes.
“As you suspect,” she said, “I knew my brother intended going there that night, as I did on the night at the ‘Wheat Sheaf.’ And I followed to do what I could to save him from danger. But if he was innocent,” and her eyes fixed themselves gravely upon George, “why did he see fit to hide afterward?”
“In the light of what I now know,” answered George, “it is clear enough. He feared that he had been recognized and would be arrested. In that event it would be necessary to call upon General Putnam; of course, he would then be released; but at the same time, this release might cause a suspicion of the real state of affairs to get abroad, and so ruin his chances to eventually worm himself into the secrets of the enemy.”
He then recounted how he had been met and been invited by her uncle to their New York home; he was about to tell his conversation with Major Hyde and the dragoon when she interrupted him.
“I heard it all,” she said. “By accident I was seated at the window behind the curtain; and that conversation convinced me more and more that you were what I had come to think you—a person in the pay of both sides—one willing to betray either, according to which way your interest pointed.” Her hand touched his arm lightly, imploringly. “Forgive me,” she said.
After this came the story of the tapestried chamber from his point of view; then he told what Hyde had said about it. She hung her head.
“IT’S THE ARMY OF WASHINGTON”
“I could not see you harmed, no matter what you had done,” she said, simply. “In spite of all that I then believed against you, I could not forget who you were and that you had behaved bravely more than once in my behalf.”