“Certainly,” said Jerry. “Our prisoner does not deny his identity. It gives us pleasure to produce him.”
At a nod from Colonel Daubenspeck the orderly at the door ran off to where Cooke and the prisoner waited.
In the interval there was a general exchange of introductions at the bungalow. The adjutant-general of South Carolina was in a merry mood, and began chaffing Ardmore upon the deadly character of apples found in his orchard beyond the Raccoon.
“I deeply regret,” said Ardmore, rubbing his chin, “that the adjutant-general of North Carolina is suffering from a severe attack of paralysis agitans, and will be unable to meet with us.”
“I deplore the fact,” replied the adjutant-general of South Carolina, “for one of our scouts picked up a darky in the highway a while ago who had on a uniform dress-coat with the initials ‘R. G.’ sewed in the pocket.”
“If you will return that garment to me, General,” said Ardmore, “I will see that it reaches Colonel Gillingwater by special messenger, where, upon his couch of pain, he chafes over his enforced absence from the field of danger.”
Steps sounded on the veranda, and all rose as Cooke appeared in the door, leading his handcuffed prisoner, who stood erect and glared at the company in gloomy silence.
“This man,” said Ardmore, “we declare to be Bill Appleweight, alias Poteet.—I ask you, sir”—he addressed the prisoner—“to state whether you are not known by one or both of these names?”
The man nodded his head and grumbled a reluctant affirmative.
“Professor Griswold,” Ardmore went on, “the gentleman in charge of the prisoner is Roger Cooke, for many years in the secret service of the United States. He now conducts a private agency, and is in my employ.—Mr. Cooke, I will ask you whether you identify this man as Appleweight?”