“One favour before you go, your Excellency,” exclaimed Jack, as the general turned. “I—Could n’t—Does McLane still get his spies into the city?”
“Almost daily.”
“Could he—Wilt ask him—to—to make inquiry—if possible—of one—concerning Miss Janice Meredith, and let me know how she fares?”
The general pressed the aide’s hand, and was opening his lips, when a figure, covered by a négligèe night-gown of green silk, appeared at the door.
“I’ve heard thee exciting John for the last half-hour, Mr. Washington,” she said upbraidingly. “I am amazed at thy thoughtlessness.”
“Nay, Patsy, I but stopped in to ask how he did and to bid him a good-night,” replied Washington, gently.
“A half-hour,” reiterated Mrs. Washington, sternly, “and now you still tarry.”
“Only because you block the doorway, my dear,” said the husband, equably. “If I delayed at all, ’t was because Brereton wished to set in train an inquiry concerning his sweetheart.”
“His what?” exclaimed the dame. “Let me pass in, Mr. Washington. John must tell me all about her this moment.”
“You said he should sleep, Patsy,” replied the general, smiling. “Come to our room, my dear, and I’ll tell you somewhat of her.”