“Sir,” said Tom Faringfield, stepping forth from where he had been leaning against the stair-post, “I must speak low, because my parents and sister are in the parlour there, and I don’t wish them to hear—­”

“With all my heart,” replied Falconer.  “Won’t you come into my room, and have a glass of wine?”

“No, sir.  If I had a glass of wine, I should only waste it by throwing it in your face.  All I have to say is, that you are a scoundrel, and I desire an opportunity to kill you as soon as may be—­”

“Tut, tut, my dear lad—­”

“I’ll think of a pretext, and send my friend to you to-morrow,” added Tom, and, turning his back, went quietly up-stairs to his room; where, having locked the door, he fell face forward upon his bed, and cried like a heart-broken child.

CHAPTER XV.

In Which There Is a Flight by Sea, and a Duel by Moonlight.

It appeared, from Ned Faringfield’s account of himself, that after his encounter with Philip, and his fall from the shock of his wound, he had awakened to a sense of being still alive, and had made his way to the house of a farmer, whose wife took pity on him and nursed him in concealment to recovery.  He then travelled through the woods to Staten Island, where, declaring himself a deserter from the rebel army, he demanded to be taken before the British commander.

Being conveyed to headquarters in the Kennedy House, near the bottom of the Broadway, he told his story, whereupon witnesses to his identity were easily found, and, Captain Falconer having been brought to confront him, he was released from bodily custody.  He must have had a private interview with Falconer, and, perhaps, obtained money from him, before he came to the Faringfield house to vent his disappointment upon Madge.  Or else he had got money from some other source; he may have gambled with what part of his pay he received in the early campaigns.  He may, on some occasion, have safely violated Washington’s orders against private robbery under the cover of war.  He may have had secret dealings with the “Skinners” or other unattached marauders.  In any case, his assured manner of offering Madge a passage to England with him, showed that he possessed the necessary means.

He had instantly recognised a critical moment of Madge’s life, the moment when she found herself suddenly deprived of all resource but a friendly hospitality which she was too proud to make long use of, as a heaven-sent occasion for his ends.  At another time, he would not have thought of making Madge his partner in an enterprise like the Irishman’s—­he feared her too much, and was too sensible of her dislike and contempt.