“Why, father, ’twould go hard with thee were it to become known that thee had given aid to a prisoner,” answered Peggy. “I wished to keep thee clear of it. Then, too, thee might have deemed it duty to give up my cousin, and I could not bear that; yet I should want thee to do what was right.”
“I think I understand, lass,” he said, “’Twas most ingenious to think of having him come to the door as Sally’s escort. I knew not that thou hadst so much of daring in thee to originate such a plan.”
Peggy flushed scarlet at this. She had suppressed all mention of Fairfax’s connection with the matter, wishing not to implicate him. So she stared at her father in an embarrassed silence, uneasy at the praise she did not merit.
“But why was he not discovered?” went on David Owen musingly. “The room was searched twice. By the way,” turning suddenly toward Fairfax Johnson, “captain, was it not thee who went up there first?”
“It was, sir,” answered the young man promptly. “I stumbled over Clifford, who was lying wrapped up in a fur rug. He chuckled as I did so, and I knew at once who it was. I had known him in Williamsburgh, you remember.”
“Why didst thou not cry out? Thou wert taken unawares, as it were. I marvel at thy command,” and Mr. Owen regarded him keenly.
“Well,” hesitated the youth, “I went up there because I suspected that Miss Peggy had some one hidden there, and I wanted to help her.”
“Thou knew of it? But how?”
“Because she was out of the room longer than any one after dinner, and had time to make arrangements of that nature if she so desired, sir. Then too she did not reply when the sheriff asked us all to say whether we had seen anything of a British prisoner.”
“All this went on, and I saw naught of it!” exclaimed Mr. Owen. “Why! where were my eyes? I would have affirmed that I could account for every action of every member of the household.”