The form of repartee necessary to augment his ill humour was, of course, a matter of simple mechanism for one who had not entirely forgotten his student days in the Quarter; and I delivered it airily, though I shivered inwardly that Miss Elliott should hear.

“Everything will be all right if, when you dine at the inn, you’ll sit with your back toward me.”

To my shamed surprise, this roustabout wit drew a nervous, silvery giggle from her; and that completed the work with Mr. Percy, whose face grew scarlet with anger.

“You’re a hot one, you are!” he sneered, with shocking bitterness.  “You’re quite the teaser, ain’t ye, s’long’s yer lady-friend is lukkin’ on!  I guess they’ll be a few surprises comin’ your way, before long.  P’raps I cudn’t give ye one now ’f I had a mind to.”

“Pshaw,” I laughed, and, venturing at hazard, said, “I know all you know!”

“Oh, you do!” he cried scornfully.  “I reckon you might set up an’ take a little notice, though, if you knowed ’at I know all you know!”

“Not a bit of it!”

“No?  Maybe you think I don’t know what makes you so raw with me?  Maybe you think I don’t know who ye’ve got so thick with at this here Pigeon House; maybe you think I don’t know who them people are!”

“No, you don’t.  You have learned,” I said, trying to control my excitement, “nothing!  Whoever hired you for a spy lost the money.  You don’t know any-thing!”

“I don’t!” And with that his voice went to a half-shriek.  “Maybe you think I’m down here f’r my health; maybe you think I come out f’r a pleasant walk in the woods right now; maybe you think I ain’t seen no other lady-friend o’ yours besides this’n to-day, and maybe I didn’t see who was with her—­yes, an’ maybe you think I d’know no other times he’s be’n with her.  Maybe you think I ain’t be’n layin’ low over at Dives!  Maybe I don’t know a few real names in this neighbourhood!  Oh, no, maybe not!”

“You know what the maitre d’hotel told you; nothing more.”

“How about the name—­Oliver Saffren?” he cried fiercely, and at last, though I had expected it, I uttered an involuntary exclamation.

“How about it?” he shouted, advancing toward me triumphantly, shaking his forefinger in my face.  “Hey?  That stings some, does it?  Sounds kind o’ like a false name, does it?  Got ye where the hair is short, that time, didn’t I?”

“Speaking of names,” I retorted, “‘Oil Poicy’ doesn’t seem to ring particularly true to me!”

“It’ll be gud enough fer you, young feller,” he responded angrily.  “It may belong t’ me, an’ then again, it maybe don’t.  It ain’ gunna git me in no trouble; I’ll luk out f’r that.  Your side’s where the trouble is; that’s what’s eatin’ into you.  An’ I’ll tell you flat-foot, your gittin’ rough ‘ith me and playin’ Charley the Show-Off in front o’ yer lady-friends’ll all go down in the bill.  These people ye’ve got so chummy with—­they’ll pay f’r it all right, don’t you shed no tears over that!”