“But, Sir Henry, you do not comprehend,” argued Carlisle, “what an expenditure of treasure this war has already cost the King’s exchequer. Mr. Prince, the Governor of the Bank of England, says: ‘We shall all be paupers by this everlasting drain on our gold.’ Sir Henry, I represent the financial side of this problem.” “Well, my Lord,” retorted Sir Henry, “all that I can say to your argument is, that with your money power, as now constituted, having your Bank Governor at the throat of our nation, you will make cowards of us all. We shall lose the toil of two centuries and the sacrifices of twenty generations of Englishmen in colonizing a wilderness. For what? For the dross called pounds sterling! The Colonists are unruly children. Chastise them and then bring them back home and treat them generously.” Carlisle now paced nervously up and down the portico, evidently thinking of how he would turn the last argument of Sir Henry, when the little fat body of the General fairly bubbled over with pugnacity as he grew red in the face and exclaimed: “If the War Lord would give me the men to chastise the rebels well, and not listen to the whining Bank Governor, we could wage a successful campaign and make an honorable peace.” Lord Carlisle held his peace and glared at Clinton. Now General Clinton turned toward the bay and there beheld events transpiring that turned the temper of his conversation. “Zounds!” he exclaimed. “They have lowered a boat and are making for the Battery. There must be despatches or important personages aboard.” He raised his glass and looked upon the boat’s crew approaching the shore. “We need not bother ourselves,” contended Sir Henry, “Andre will forward anything of importance to us.” The two representatives of government then returned to the drawing-room to get out of the biting wind and to indulge in a bottle of Madeira for old England’s sake. At the office of the Commander-in-Chief, No. 1 Broadway, was Major John Andre who had come from the capture of Charleston with General Clinton as Adjutant General of the English Army. He was unmarried and young and affable. His lodgings were in the same house as the General’s office and he dined at the King’s Arms Tavern, No. 9 Broadway, a few doors from his quarters. As soon as the boat could land from the Prince Harry, no time was lost in forwarding the despatches to headquarters. A passenger came ashore, a young man dressed in the style of a Parisian of fashion. He had travelled under an assumed name, for even the British naval officers were not to know his mission. The arrangement of his queue was faultless. His satins and sword, his laces and high-heeled shoes, indicated the courtier. But Pierre La Fitte was none other than Roderick Barclugh on his mission for the King of England. When Major Andre appeared in the ante-room of the headquarters of General Clinton, he extended his hand to this strange gentleman cordially and said: