"'Tis a French gentleman," pursued Murray, bent upon winning my
confidence with his easy manners and glib tongue, "on his way to
Canada. He can tell you rare tales of the wilderness and the
savages. Ha, _chevalier_, meet a young countryman of mine. Such is
the timber we use to exploit the new plantations. Master
Juggins--the Chevalier de Veulle."
All unsuspecting, de Veulle made me a slight bow, a look of
indifferent disdain in his face at sight of my plebeian figure. The
disguise was good, and I hoped I might cozen him for a time at least.
But no man forgets another who has toyed with his life, and his
indifference was dissipated the instant his eye met mine.
"Juggins?" he exclaimed in bewilderment. "You said Juggins, Monsieur
Murray?"
"Sure, 'tis so," returned Murray urbanely. "Not our friend, the
doughty trader, you understand, but----"
"_Parbleu!_" swore de Veulle. "This man is no more named Juggins
than I am!"
In his excitement his English, which was broken enough at best,
became almost incoherent. Murray favored me with a brief glance of
suspicion.
"Who then?" he demanded.
"Ormerod! 'Tis Harry Ormerod, the Jacobite refugee!"
Murray snapped his fingers to Tom, the negro, who had been a silent
witness to our conversation. In an instant he stood beside us, his
baleful yellow eyes glaring at me.
"Is this the man who came with Master Juggins to the hearing before
the Lords of Trade?" snapped Murray.
"He de man, massa," Tom answered in a husky voice that had a snarl in
it.
"You are sure!"
"Yes, massa."
"Tom doesn't make mistakes," remarked Murray with a gesture of
dismissal to the negro. "May I ask who you are, sir?" he addressed
me.
"I suppose you may," I replied coolly; and with a sense of relief I
ripped the bobbed scratch-wig off my head and tossed it into the sea.
"Does that help you at all?" I inquired of de Veulle.
He stared back at me, his face all drawn with hatred.
"I knew you with it on," he said savagely. "It became you. Why
should a deserter wear the clothes of a gentleman?"