For a space after Johnson Quinsey spoke these surprising words, Ben remained looking at him, steadily, but in silence. At length he spoke:

“I am honored, indeed, Master Quinsey, to know that I am considered worthy of the trouble it must have cost you to get here.”

Johnson Quinsey waved his hand.

“Let us not start with any misunderstanding,” said he, with engaging candor. “The fact is, I did not know that such a person as yourself existed before two days ago. Another thing, it is a matter of business, and not yourself that brings me; so you see there is no great honor attached to the matter.”

Ben laughed; there was something about the courier’s blunt way of speech which he liked.

“Why, as to that,” said the boy, “of course I am vastly disappointed. But we’ll pass that by and come to the business without any parleying. I am wanted at headquarters.”

Johnson Quinsey smacked his boot-leg smartly with his thick-stocked whip.

“For a lad,” said he, “you have a clever knack of promptness. I noted that when you answered the call, and I was pleased with it.” He stood gazing at the boy, reflectively. “But,” he resumed, musingly, “I had no notion when I first heard your name that it was that of such a stripling.”

“The stripling stage,” said Ben, good-humoredly, “will pass if given time, Master Quinsey. And remember,” smiling, “that years alone do not give wisdom.”

“Well do I know that, young gentleman,” said the other; “well indeed do I know it. I have seen them who are three times your years, and not once have they been spoken of as I have heard you spoken of.”

“I  AM SUMMONED TO HEADQUARTERS”

“Ah,” said Ben Cooper, “it’s a grave pleasure to be well spoken of by distant friends. Walk along with me to headquarters.”

“Ay, that it is,” and the tone of the man’s voice was slightly mocking. “That it is, my lad. But what if you should hear that you were ill spoken of, and that the distant ones were not friends?”

“In that case,” said Ben, promptly enough, “I should say that it were all one. To have enemies speak evil of one is to show that one is at least worthy of their ill will.”

“If all that I’ve heard,” said Johnson Quinsey, “be taken at its face value, you are ill thought of, indeed, in certain circles. But,” and the man’s face grew grave and his tone lost its lightness, “it was not mere ill speaking only that I marked. They fear you; and where such as they fear, there is danger.”

“For the person feared?” said Ben.

“Exactly. And their arms are long, young gentleman, and their clutch is strong. They are not ones to be despised, these enemies of yours at York.”

“At York!” said Ben. The Congress was now meeting there. His eyes took on a glint that the other noted immediately. It was that sparkle which comes with expectation.

“No less a place,” said Johnson Quinsey. Then regarding the boy steadfastly, he continued: “It may be that you could, if you so desired, name one or more of these.”

“I fancy that I could name one at least,” said Ben. “And, perhaps,” returning the man’s look, quietly, “there might be two whom I could select.”

“Ah, yes, perhaps there might,” said Johnson Quinsey, encouragingly. “And to venture so far——”

“Tobias Hawkins,” spoke Ben.

“Excellent,” approved the man. “Once more.”

“A long man with an evil smile; his name is Sugden.”

“Better than ever,” applauded Johnson Quinsey. “It is something indeed to know two such as these, especially,” with a nod of the head, “when they hold such thoughts as I’ve heard them express of you.”

“But,” said Ben, “there were some others, I believe, judging from your tone.”

“A very few, but quite select enough to please any one,” said the man. “You have no need to feel ashamed of the quality of the enemies you have made. A member of Congress or two, a colonel much thought of in certain circles, and some gentlemen of note who are not openly connected with the affairs of the nation.”

“They honor me too much,” said Ben. “But,” in another tone, “as you know, I am summoned to headquarters, and must not delay. At another time I will see you and speak with you on this subject.”

“Another time may not come for many a day,” said the man. “And then, doubtless, it would be too late. What I have to say must be said now if it’s to do you any good, for I ride north at daylight to rejoin Gates.”

Ben looked at the speaker inquiringly; the man’s aspect was grave; indeed, he had all the appearance of one who bore sober tidings. After a little space, Johnson Quinsey resumed:

“To relate in detail all that has come to my knowledge would take more time than you now can give, and, perhaps, would be of no benefit either. So, then, I will tell you what I must tell, in a very few words.” He laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “These men fear you for the things that you know, and to which you alone can testify. There is a plot which is intended to place you in their power. What it is I do not know. But its workings will be secret, and the lure will be one totally unexpected by you.”

“There are many such just now,” said Ben, bitterly. “Indeed, Master Quinsey, those given to plotting seem to exceed those willing to fight.”

“Do you know any one of the name of Seaforth?” asked Johnson Quinsey.

“I do,” said Ben. “A young fellow of my own age, and a courier much used by headquarters.”

“Ah, I see!” The man looked at him with sober eyes. “Well, Master Cooper, take care of this young Seaforth, for he is somehow engaged with your enemies. Another thing: Do the words ‘Crossed keys’ suggest anything to you?”

Ben shook his head.

“In some way they, also, are to play their parts, though just how is more than I can say. However, young gentleman, beware of Seaforth and of anything having to do with ‘crossed keys.’ More than that I cannot tell you, and in parting I can only wish you luck.”

Ben grasped the courier’s outstretched hand.

“I thank you,” he said, gratefully. “I understand very well that harm is meditated, for these men have attempted such before; but how they propose to set about it this time is more than I can imagine. However, Master Quinsey, I will keep Seaforth in mind and also the ‘crossed keys.’ Perhaps they will be the beginning of a clearer understanding.”

“I trust that it shall prove so,” said the rider; “and now, good-bye.”

With another hand-grasp the two parted, one walking off among the camp-fires, the other making his way toward headquarters.

Once at the latter place, Ben was greeted by a businesslike aide.

“Cooper,” said he, “we are instructed to send a brace of couriers for special service at York. The man asked for is now absent, and I intend sending you in his place. The choice of a second horseman is left to him for some reason, and this privilege I will pass on to you. So select your man; your orders will be given you when you are ready to depart.”

“To-night?” asked Ben, his hand at a salute.

“At once,” replied the officer, briefly.

In a half hour Ben Cooper and Paddy Burk were standing on the cold porch at headquarters, while their horses stamped in the snow. The bareheaded aide from the open doorway spoke to Ben:

“You are to report to the secretary of Congress; what service you are to render he will be able to say.”

With that Ben and his friend saluted and mounted; then they sent their nags at a canter along the darkening road.

“It’s no night to be taken away from a comfortable fire,” shivered the Irish lad as he drew up the collar of his coat and pulled his hat down to protect him from the keen wind.

“Adventures are to be had at night, Paddy,” laughed Ben. “Don’t forget that.”

“Why, then,” said the other, “it’s the truth you speak, so it is. A ruction is a fine thing at any time; but at night—especially on a dark, cold night—there seems to be more enjoyment in it.”

The horses’ hoofs beat steadily upon the frost-bound road; mile after mile they put behind them; the few houses to be met by the way were dark; their inhabitants seemed deep in sleep.

“Faith,” said Paddy, after a long silence, “it’s a queer thing entirely to have a couple of gossoons ride all the way from Whitemarsh to York to, maybe, carry a parcel of letters somewhere else. Could they get no ready lads at their hands, sure?”

“Special service of some sort,” said Ben. “It can be nothing of any great haste, however, for it will take some little time for us to get there.”

They clung to the Lancaster road, and as raiding bodies of British were frequently seen upon this highway, the boys kept a watchful eye, and saw to it that their pistols were ready to hand. As the night wore on, it grew, if anything, colder; the road seemed deserted save for themselves.

Ben had made up his mind to this, when suddenly he chanced to notice, some little distance to one side, a flicker of light. He was about to remark on its queerness when Paddy spoke:

“Hello! Is it a light I see there?”

“It is,” said Ben.

“Why, then,” spoke Paddy, “it’s queer conduct it do be having, so it is. Do you mind the little jumps it gives, as though it were trying to call out to us?”

Ben’s eyes were upon the light as his companion spoke, and he felt that Paddy had described the idea conveyed by the light exactly. It moved in short, rapid circles for a moment; then it would wave to and fro, and up and down.

“If it had a voice it would call to us,” said Ben with a laugh. “I never saw anything so mutely eloquent. It must be a signal of some sort.”

“The British!” whispered Paddy, his hand going to his pistol.

“It may be,” said Ben. “And then it may not be.” He slipped from his horse and handed his bridle to Paddy.

“Is it going over there you are?” asked the latter, surprise in his tone.

“Yes,” said Ben. “It seems to me that this is something that should be looked into.”

Then telling Paddy to remain where he was until he called, Ben made his way through the darkness toward the light. This had now grown still and burned with a steadiness that showed that it was a lamp of some sort. Carefully Ben picked his way along a sort of cow path that branched off from the road, and in a very few minutes he came upon a huge fallen tree, against the trunk of which leaned a man holding a lantern in his hand. As Ben advanced toward him the man held up the light and chuckled.

“I thought you were not going to stop,” said he. “But I see you were on the lookout.”

“He who goes about with closed eyes on nights like these,” spoke Ben, “will be like to run into danger.”

“Dangers there be, and plenty,” said the man. He placed his lantern upon the fallen tree and took a few steps up and down, swinging his arms. And as he stepped there came a sharp, clicking sound; glancing down Ben saw that the man wore a wooden leg, the top of which was shod with iron. “Danger there be and plenty,” repeated the man with the wooden leg. “And that you’d find, sir, if you really went all the way to York.”

Ben glanced sharply at the man.

“And what,” asked he, “makes you think that I might be on my way there?”

The man paused in his walk and turned a face upon the lad, all agrin in the lamplight.

“Let us not discuss the how or why of things,” said he. “It is for us to do as we are bidden and question nothing, Master Seaforth.”

Again Ben’s eyes went to the man’s face with more than usual sharpness.

“Seaforth!” was what shot through his mind. “That is the name of the man whom Johnson Quinsey bid me beware of, only a few hours ago.”

To the other, however, he said:

“You have made something of a mistake, I think, sir. My name is not Seaforth.”

The iron-shod point of the timber leg rang sharply upon the frozen ground. The owner of it waved his hand after the fashion of a man who concerns himself with nothing which does not immediately bear upon him.

“You were sent as a courier to York, were you not?” asked he.

Ben nodded.

“And you selected a certain one to accompany you, as requested?”

“Yes,” answered the boy.

“Then let your name be what you will,” said the one-legged man. “I have nothing to do with your likes and dislikes in such things. I was to meet you here, and I was to signal you. And then I was to see that your companion was not within ear-shot, after which I was to tell you that your stopping place shows a green light over the door. Once inside you are to ask for Master Bleekwood. He will tell you the rest.”

For a time Ben stood looking at the man; a score of questions were in his mind, but a natural caution even in the midst of his surprise prevented the asking of them. However, he ventured one:

“Why were not these instructions given me before I started?”

Again the man grinned; also he took his lantern as though about to move on.

“Perhaps,” said he, “you were not to be trusted. It sometimes happens, as you must know, if you are a person of any wide experience, that it does not do to make too complete a revelation of one’s plans at first—even to those whom we know the best.” He waved his lantern at Ben. “A good-night—or morning whichever it may be—to you, young sir. It’s over cold to be standing in the open. November nights are not like those of August.” He stumped away a short distance, then turned and placed his hand to his mouth that his voice might carry only in the direction he desired. “Remember, there is to be a green light showing over the door; and you are to ask for Master Bleekwood.”

Again he waved the lantern, and again he turned and went his way, the iron tip of the wooden leg ringing against the frozen ground.

In a few moments Ben had reached his horse and mounted; and in a few more he had imparted to Paddy what had passed. He had already informed the Irish lad concerning his conversation with Johnson Quinsey, and at this new cropping up of the name of Seaforth, Paddy was surprised.

“It’s queer enough,” he said, as they rode along, “to have one so quickly follow upon the heels of the other. ‘Beware of a man named Seaforth,’ says one man; and ‘Your name is Seaforth,’ says the other, for all the world as though he were expecting this same person.”

“Which he was, in point of fact,” said Ben. “He said he was sent to signal him, to say to him, privately, that he was to stop at a house which showed a green light above the door.”

For an hour they rode steadily, discussing with interest this queer new turn of events.

“Green is an excellent color for a light,” quoth Paddy, sagely, “but in this case, faith, it’s little enough I like it. It’s better for you if you take warning by what Master Quinsey said.”

“He said nothing about green lights,” smiled Ben.

“He would if he had thought of it,” maintained Paddy.

And at his last word he noted Ben draw up close beside him and felt his grip upon his arm.

“Look—directly ahead,” said Ben. “What do you see?”

“An inn,” said Paddy.

“There is a light above the door,” and Ben’s grip tightened. “What color is it?”

“Green!” answered Paddy Burk, and he sat straight up in his saddle.