“Major-General in command of
Philadelphia and the western Jerseys.”
I looked up. “Is that all?”
“Not quite. If it chance that no officer appears to meet you at Amboy, you will return at once.”
Very glad of relief from the routine of rather distasteful duties, I rode away at dawn the next day up the Bristol road. I was stopped, as I supposed I should be, by a small band of Tory partisans, but after exhibiting my British pass I was permitted to proceed. Between Trenton and Amboy I met a party of our own horse, and had some trouble until I allowed their leader, a stupid lout, to read my open despatch, when he seemed satisfied, and sent on two troopers with me, whom I left near Amboy.
At the inn I waited a day, when a ketch appeared, and an officer, stepping ashore, came up from the beach to meet me. I saw, as he drew near, that it was Arthur Wynne.
“Glad to see you,” he cried, in a quite hearty way. “It is an unexpected pleasure. Andre was to have come, but he is ill. He desires his regards and particular compliments.”
Was I always to meet this man when I was so hampered that to have my will of him was out of the question? I said the meeting could not be unexpected, or how could Andre have known? At this I saw him look a bit queer, and I went on to add that the pleasure was all on his side.
“I am sorry,” he returned.
Not caring to hear further, I said abruptly: “Let us proceed to business. Here is a despatch for Sir Henry. Have you any letter for me!”