He plucked my arm and I stepped apart with him.
"Westfall's in his dotage; Dayton is too slow. Why don't they send up Willett or Herkimer?"
"I don't know," said I, troubled.
"Well," says Nick, "it's clear that Stevie Watts was there and has spoken with Lady Johnson. But what more is to be done? She's our prisoner. I wish to God they'd sent her to Albany or New York, where she could contrive no mischief. And that other lady, too. Lord! but Major Westfall is in a pother! And I wager Colonel Dayton will be in another, and at his wit's ends."
The business distressed me beyond measure, and I remained silent.
"By the way," he added, "your yellow-haired inamorata sends you a billet-doux. Here it is."
I took the bit of folded paper, stepped aside and read it by the firelight:
"Sir:
"I venture to entertain a hope that some day it may please you to converse again with one whose offense—if any—remains a mystery to her still.
"P. G."
I read it again, then crumpled it and dropped it on the coals. I had seen Steve Watts kiss her. That was enough.
"There's a devil's nest of Tories gathering in Howell's house tonight to cut our throats," said I coldly. "Should we take them with ten men, or call in the Continentals?"