“Don’t trouble yourself about it,” said the hunter, smiling, “I have sufficient to meet the bills, and I shall see that all your tailors are reimbursed duly.  Some one must always look after a man of fashion.”

“I wish I knew more than I do,” said Robert in troubled tones, “because I’ve a notion that the money with which you will pay my tailor comes from the till of Master Benjamin Hardy.  It’s uncommon strange that he does so much for me.  I’m very grateful, but surely there must be some motive behind it.”

He glanced at Willet to see how he took his words, but the hunter merely smiled, and Robert knew that the smile was a mask through which he could not penetrate.

“Take the goods the gods provide thee,” said the hunter.

“I will,” said Robert, cheerfully, “since it seems I can’t do anything else.”

And he did.  His response to New York continued to be as vigorous as it had been to Quebec, and while New York lacked some of the brilliancy, some of the ultimate finish that, to his mind, had distinguished Quebec, it was more solid, there was more of an atmosphere of resource, and it was all vastly interesting.  Charteris proved himself a right true friend, and he opened for him whatever doors he cared to enter that Mr. Hardy may have left unlocked.  He was also thrown much with Grosvenor, and the instinctive friendship between the two ripened fast.

On the fifth day of his stay in New York a letter came out of the wilderness from Wilton at Fort Refuge.  It had been brought by an Oneida runner to Albany, and was sent thence by post to New York.

Wilton wrote that time would pass rather heavily with them in the little fortress, if the hostile Indians allowed it.  Small bands now infested that region, and the soldiers were continually making marches against them.  The strange man, whom they called Black Rifle, was of vast help, guiding them and saving them from ambush.

Wilton wrote that he missed Philadelphia, which was certainly the finest city outside of Europe, but he hoped to go back to it, seasoned and improved by life in the woods.  New York, where he supposed Robert now to be, was an attractive town, in truth, a great port, but it had not the wealth and cultivation of Philadelphia, as he hoped to show Robert some day.  Meanwhile he wished him well.

Robert smiled.  He had pleasant memories of Wilton, Colden, Carson and the others, and while he was making new friends he did not commit the crime of forgetting old ones.  It was his hope that he should meet them all again, not merely after the war, but long before.

In his comings and goings among the great of their day Robert kept a keen eye for the vision of St. Luc.  He half hoped, half feared that some time in the twilight or the full dusk of the night he would see in some narrow street the tall figure wrapped in its great cloak.  But the chevalier did not appear, and Robert felt that he had not really come as a spy upon the English army and its preparations.  He must have gone, days since.