“It was that rebel! It was Captain Logie!” cried Callandar.
“It was not Logie; you may take my word for that,” replied Archie. He sat down on the edge of the table and crossed his legs. “Try again, Callandar,” he said lightly.
Callandar’s lips were drawn into an even line, but they were shaking. The mortification of finding that Archie had been aware of his presence, had pursued his way unconcerned, knowing that he followed, had called him in as a man calls the serving-man he has left outside, was hot in him. No wonder his own concealment had seemed so easy.
“You have sent him to warn Logie—that is what you have done!” he cried. “You are a scoundrel—I know that!”
He stepped up to him, and would have laid hold of his collar, but the sling stopped him.
“I have. Callandar, you are a genius.”
As the other stood before him, speechless, Flemington rose up.
“You have got to arrest me,” he said; “that is why I called you in. I might have run out by the back of the house, like the man who is gone, who went with my message almost before the door was shut. Look! I have only one serviceable arm and no sword. I left it where I left my horse. And here is my pistol; I will lay it on the table, so you will have no trouble in taking me prisoner. You have not had your stalking for nothing, after all, you mighty hunter before the Lord!”
“You mean to give yourself up—you, who have taken so much care to save yourself?”
“I have meant to ever since I saw you under the rowan-tree watching me, flattened against the trunk like a squirrel. I would as soon be your prisoner as anyone else’s—sooner, I think.”