This endeavor of his to prove his loyalty did not appear so glorious an undertaking as he had at first supposed. His thoughts ran back to his brother George in that cramped prison cell, where he supposed him still to be.
But the latter, a free man again, was at this moment seated before a fireplace in a large wainscoted room in a large house not far from Fraunce's Tavern.
On the opposite side was sitting the burly figure of Rivington!
When George had found that no boat was waiting for him at Striker's wharf, he had bethought himself at once of two places where he might hide—Mrs. Mack's and School-master Anderson's. How stupid he had been that he had not discovered the latter's character before! Putting the incidents together, he could read all plain enough.
Anderson was the one to see.
As he was about to sound the knocker gently on the schoolmaster's door, some one spoke to him and called softly,
"Number Four, I say!"
There was a touch on his elbow (he still carried his right hand in a sling), and Rivington was standing beside him.
"Do not fear, my son," he said; "I am one of the seven." There was the sound of laughing coming from within the house. "Some of our friends from across the water are in there," said the printer. "It was lucky I was in time to stop you. We must entertain them, you know. I have been following you for some time to make sure. Come with me."
He had piloted George to the street, and opened the door of his own house with a huge key, ushering him into the large room in which they were now seated.