She spoke with evident sincerity so that Peggy believed her.
“Harriet,” she said, “tell me why thou hast done this? Why should thee play the spy?”
Harriet shivered at the word. “I am cold,” she said. “Let us get into bed, Peggy. I am cold.”
Without a word of protest Peggy helped her to undress, but she herself climbed into the four-poster without disrobing. Harriet pulled the many colored counterpanes about her and snuggled down into the thick feather bed.
“Peggy,” she said presently, “I know ’tis thought most indelicate for a female to engage in such enterprise as spying, but would you not take any risk for your country if you thought it would benefit her?”
“Yes,” assented her cousin. “I would.”
“That and one other thing is the reason that I have become one,” said Harriet. “We English believe that you Americans are wrong about the war. We are loyal to our king, and fight to keep the colonies which rightfully belong to him. I came with my brother, Clifford, over here, and both of us were full of enthusiasm for His Majesty. We determined to do anything that would help him to put down the rebellion, and so believing offered our services to Sir Henry Clinton.
“There was but this one thing that I could do, and when we learned that you and your mother were to join Cousin David we knew that it was the opportunity we sought. Sir Henry welcomed the chance to have an informant who would be right in the midst of things without being suspected. And I have learned much, Peggy. I have done good work.”
“Harriet,” interrupted Peggy amazed at the recital, “does thee mean to tell me thee knew when mother and I were coming?”
“To the very day,” answered Harriet with a laugh. “Oh, we keep well informed in New York. You little know the people who are around you. And your general hath spies among us, too. ’Tis fortune of war, Peggy.”