“You took my letter last night?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Was there an answer for me?”
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t you have come to the camp and told me?”
“I could, but I had other matters to concern me,” he replied. “Here’s your letter,” and he fished it out of his tattered pocket.
I was angry enough, but I did not wish to anger him at that moment. So I took the letter and read it—a formal line saying the Countess de Vassart would expect me at five that afternoon.
“You are not noted for your courtesy, are you?” I inquired, smiling.
Something resembling a grin touched his sea-scarred visage.
“Oh, I knew you’d come for your answer,” he said, coolly.