How true it is that a woman may always be relied on to say a word too much—whether for the sake of a taunt, or the mere necessity of giving an apt answer, I presume not to decide.
"What can that mean?" said he, arrested by the peculiarity of her tone and look. "Find him where I came from? Why, that's our camp. What does he do there, 'to-night of all nights?' Explain yourself."
"Nothing at all. I spoke without thinking."
"The likelier to have spoken true, then! So your—acquaintance—might be found in our camp to-night? Charles Falconer, a British officer. I can't imagine—not as a spy, surely. Oho! is there some expedition? Some attack, some midnight surprise? This requires looking into."
"I fear you will not find out much. And if you did, it would be too late for you to carry a warning."
"The expedition has too great a start of me—is that what you mean? That's to be seen. I might beat Mr. Falconer in this, as he has beaten me—elsewhere. I know the Jersey roads better than I have known my wife's heart, perchance. What is this expedition?"
"Do you think I would tell you—if there were one?"
"I'm satisfied there is some such thing. But I doubt no warning of mine is needed, to defeat it. Our army is alert for these night attempts. We've had too many of 'em. If there be one afoot to-night, so much the worse for those engaged in it."
This irritated her; and she never used the skill to guard her speech, at her calmest; so she answered quickly:
"Not if it's helped by traitors in your camp!"