The new tenant had been made aware of this before entering upon occupation. Not by his landlord, but the man under whose instructions he had taken the house.
The proximity of the refugee headquarters was partly the cause of Mr McTavish being so anxious to go out. It was the sole reason why Swinton had shown himself so anxious to come in!
Swinton had this knowledge, and no more. The motive for putting him in possession had not yet been revealed to him. He had been instructed to take that particular house, coûte que coûte; and he had taken it as told, at a cost of two hundred pounds.
His patron had provided him with a cheque for three hundred. Two had gone into the pocket of McTavish; the other remained in his own.
He had got installed in his new domicile; and seated with a cigar between his lips—a real Havanna—was reflecting upon the comforts that surrounded him. How different that couch, with its brocaded cover, and soft cushions, from the hard horse-hair sofa, with its flattened squab! How unlike these luxurious chairs to the sharp skeletons of cane, his wife had reason to remember! While congratulating himself on the change of fortune, he was also bethinking him of what had led to it. He had a tolerably correct idea of why he had been so favoured.
But for what purpose he had been placed in the villa, or the duty there required of him, he was still ignorant.
He could only conjecture that he had something to do with Kossuth. Of this he was almost certain.
He was not to remain long in the dark about his duties. At an interview on the morning of that day, his patron had promised to send him full instructions—by a gentleman who should “come up in the course of the evening.”
Swinton was shrewd enough to have a thought as to who this gentleman would be; and it inspired him to a conversation with his wife, of a nature peculiar as confidential.
“Fan?” he said, taking the cigar from his teeth, and turning towards the couch, on which that amiable creature was reclining.