CHAPTER XIV.
HIGH LIVING.
The gift of mimicry had now served the young spy in good stead. He lay hidden for some time, chuckling over having barked to such good purpose. Then he retraced his steps, and at last he found the tree. No doubt the man he had seen there had been one of the mysterious people he was expected soon to meet.
By leaning far out from one branch to the other, George could insert his hand in the hole of the projecting limb. It was empty, and he dropped his letter into the hollow. Then he returned carefully through the town to the inn, and without much difficulty gained the top of the wall, the projecting roof, and once more his chamber window. The falling snow, he knew, would hide his footprints.
He was awakened the next morning by a loud knocking. He had slept late, and the glaring sunlight, reflected from the white expanse outside, was pouring into the room. He arose hastily and unlocked the door. One of the inn servants was standing there. He touched his finger to his forehead respectfully.
"The landlord's compliments, sir, and your box is here. Shall I bring it up?" he inquired.
George had made up his mind to be surprised at nothing. "By all means," he answered. "Glad it has arrived."
"Oh, it has been here this fortnight," returned the man.
"Of course," George laughed; "and longer, mayhap, eh?"
"I don't know, sir. Have you the key?"