“As for that, Governor, the thing’s done already. All know me as your friend.”
“Only as my defender. All do not know you as a plotter and conspirator—such as the Times describes me.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the elect of a German revolutionary committee. “Much do I care about that! Such a conspirator. I’d be only too proud of the tide. Where is this precious spy?”
As Maynard put the question, he stepped on into the window, without thinking of the curtain.
“Look up to that casement in the second storey,” directed Kossuth; “the cottage nearly opposite—first window from the corner. Do you see anything there?”
“No; nothing but a Venetian blind.”
“But the laths are apart. Can you see nothing behind them? I do distinctly. The scoundrels are not cunning. They forget there’s a back light beyond, which enables me to take note of their movements.”
“Ah!” said Maynard, still gazing. “Now I see. I can make out the figure of a man seated or standing in the window.”
“Yes; and there he is seated or standing all day; he or another. They appear to take it in turns. At night they descend to the street. Don’t look any longer! He is watching us now; and it won’t do to let him know that he’s suspected. I have my reasons for appearing ignorant of this espionage.”
Maynard, having put on a careless look, was about drawing back, when a hansom cab drove up to the gate of the house opposite, discharging a gentleman, who, furnished with a gate-key, entered without ringing the bell.