“Dr. Franklin doesn’t know me from Adam. He’s a Philadelphia Quaker, and I am from North Carolina. He has never seen me, nor I him. He knows my father and family, though. If there were any of our officers in the city, if Commodore Jones or Dick Dale had only returned from Texel, I should be all right, but as it is, I am completely at your mercy.”
I hated to say that word, but there was no help for it. The Marquis bowed gracefully.
“Your remark is singularly accurate, Monsieur. At my mercy!”
He opened his mouth and tapped his white teeth with two of his white fingers. I wanted to choke him. Why, I could not say, for he had been considerate, and I owed him a lot of money. I had robbed him in England, and, besides, I had put him to serious inconvenience.
“At my mercy,” he repeated, nodding.
“I have admitted that fact,” I said sharply. “I do not see that it is necessary to remind me of it again.”
“Oh, pardon me. You Americans are so impetuous. Cultivate calmness, my friend—English phlegm, if you will. It is a most valuable asset in any game.”
“That’s as may be, Marquis, but I play no more games with you.”
“Pardon me again,” he returned coolly; “we play yet one more hand, Monsieur, and I have the deal.”
“What are you driving at?”