“Thomas Friend, a peddler, and said to be a spy in the pay of Governor Colden.
“Ann Jane Trout, landlady of the ‘Wheat Sheaf,’ an inn long suspected of being the gathering place of the enemies of popular rights.
“The ‘Wheat Sheaf,’” said George, his mind at once focusing upon this name. “That is the place that Merchant Dana directed me to.” He gazed reflectively at the paper for a moment and gradually a smile came into his face. “At nine to-morrow night he specified, I think. I had not thought to go there; but now,” and here the smile grew broader and a sparkle began to dance in his eyes, “well, now it promises to be different, for something may be gained by it.”
Earnestly he scanned the documents. Traces of suspected plots were recorded, especially the one which Captain Hall had come upon the day before. For the most part they seemed the stories of imaginative persons, lacking all the vital points of convincing evidence.
“And yet,” mused George, “where there is much smoke, there may be some fire.” He retied the papers and arising, went into the other room where he laid them upon the table before General Putnam, who was now alone.
“I am ready,” announced he, in reply to the officer’s mute inquiry.
“Good lad,” said the general, heartily; “to-morrow, then, you make a beginning. I’ll have a sum of money sent you to-morrow at your lodgings, for you’ll have some small expenses, no doubt. And now, good luck. Do your best.”
George saluted.
“You may trust me for that, sir,” said he. And then he went out.