"Tut-tut, letter or no letter, out with it! Do you think I could not see you touching your breast every half minute, to make sure that you had it safe--and not know what was in the wind! You are a poor plotter, Mr. Taylor, and I doubt if you will ever be of any use to me. But come, out with it! Unless you want me to be rough with you. Out with whatever it is you have there, and no tricks!"
He had a way with him when he spoke in that tone, not loudly but between his teeth, his eyes at the same time growing towards one another, that was worse than Ferguson's pistol; and I was alone with him in an empty house. Some, who would have done what I did, may blame me; but in the main the world is sensible, and I shall forfeit no prudent man's esteem when I confess that, after one attempt at evasion which he met by wrenching my coat open, and thrusting me against the wail so violently that my head spun again, I gave up the letter.
"I warn you! I warn you!" I cried, in a paroxysm of rage and grief. "It is for the Duke of Berwick, and if you open it----"
"For the Duke of Berwick?" he answered, pausing and gazing at me with his finger on the seal. "Why, you fool, why did you not tell me that before? From whom? From that scum, Ferguson?"
"From the Duke of Shrewsbury," I cried, rendered reckless by my rage.
"What?" he cried, in a voice of extraordinary surprise.
"From the Duke of Shrewsbury," I repeated; thinking that he had not understood me.
"My God!" he said, with a deep breath. "And have I caught the fox at last!"
"You are more likely to be caught yourself!" I answered, furiously.