When the aide was sufficiently conscious to be able to stand, he was put between two of the soldiers, and ten minutes later the whole party reached the house of the commander-in-chief. Given entrance, without waiting to have their arrival announced, the commissary led the way through the parlour into the back room, where, about a supper table, the British commander, Mrs. Loring, and two officers were sitting.
“Ye must pardon this intrusion, Sir William,” explained Lord Clowes, as Howe, in surprise, faced about, “but we have just caught a spy red-handed, and an important one at that, being none less than Colonel Brereton, an aide of Mr. Washington. Bring him forward, sergeant.”
As Jack was led into the strong light, Mrs. Loring started to her feet with a scream, echoed by an exclamation of “By God!” from one of the officers, while the three or four glasses at Howe’s place were noisily swept into a jumble by the impulsive swing of the general’s arm as he threw himself backward and rested against the table.
“Charlie, Charlie!” cried Mrs. Loring. “You here?”
Standing rigidly erect, the aide said coldly, “My name is John Brereton; nor have I the honour of your acquaintance.”
“What’s to do here?” ejaculated Lord Clowes. “I know the man to be what he says, and that he has come in disguise within our lines to spy.”
Without looking at the commissary, Jack answered: “I wore no disguise when I passed through your lines, nor have I for a moment laid aside my uniform.”
“Call ye those rags a uniform?” jeered the commissary.
Howe gave a hearty laugh. “Why, yes, baron,” he answered. “Know you not the rebel colours by this time?”
“And how about the domino he wears over them, and the mask I hold in my hand?” contended Lord Clowes.