“Hark ye, my little poet!” whispered the latter very huskily, lurching across the table, and failing to notice that his hostess had not returned to her place. “Hark ye, sir! Cornwallis thought himself a general of generals. He thought when he courtmartialled me and turned me out of the regiment, sending me back to England in a foul hulk from Boston port, that he had got rid of me. He'll find out that he was mistaken, sir, and that one of these days----Mum's the word, mind you! If you open your lips to any human being about this, I'll cut you to pieces. I'll flay you alive! Washington is no better than Cornwallis, let me tell you. What message did he send me when he heard that I was ready to blow Cornwallis's brains out and march my company across the Potomac? I ask you, sir, man to man--though a poet isn't quite a man--but that's my generosity. Said Washy--Washy--Wishy--Washy---- Washington: 'Cornwallis's brains have been such valuable allies to the colonists, Colonel Washington would regard as his enemy any man who would make the attempt to curtail their capacity for blundering.' That's the message I got from Washington, curse him! But the Colonel isn't everybody. Mark me, my friend--whatever your name is--I've got letters--letters----” “Yes, yes, you have letters--where?” cried Goldsmith, in the confidential whisper that the other had assumed. The man who was leaning across the table stared at him hazily, and then across his face there came the cunning look of the more than half-intoxicated. He straightened himself as well as he could in his chair, and then swayed limply backward and forward, laughing. “Letters--oh, yes--plenty of letters--but where?--where?--that's my own matter--a secret,” he murmured in vague tones. “The government would give a guinea or two for my letters--one of them came from Mount Vernon itself, Mr.--whatever your name maybe--and if you went to Mr. Secretary and said to him, 'Mr. Secretary'”--he pronounced the word “Secrary”--“'I know that Dick Jackson is a rebel,' and Mr. Secretary says, 'Where are the letters to prove it?' where would you be, my clever friend? No, sir, my brains are not like Cornwallis's, drunk or sober. Hallo, where's the lady?” He seemed suddenly to recollect where he was. He straightened himself as well as he could, and looked sleepily across the room. “I'm here,” cried Mrs. Abington, leaving the chair, across the back of which Jackson's coat was thrown. “I am here, sir; but I protest I shall not take my place at the table again while treason is in the air.” “Treason, madam? Who talks of treason?” cried the man with a lurch forward and a wave of the hand. “Madam, I'm shocked--quite shocked! I wear the King's coat, though that cloak is my own--my own, and all that it contains--all that----”