"There’s your mystery unraveled," said Mr. Bastable, turning to Jack. Then to the Frenchman he said: "We’ll send you off to London, my man; ’tis for folk there to deal with you."
After breakfast, Jack walked over to Gumley’s cottage. He wanted to know how De Fronsac had escaped, and was prepared to read Gumley a lecture for his lax guardianship. But he found the old sailor so desperately upset at the trick played upon him, that he had not the heart to add to his chagrin.
"Only to think of it, sir!" said Gumley, thumping the table. "Poetry! All my eye and Betty Martin! Why, when he got that there candle, he stood upon this here table"—another thump—"and burned away the ends o’ the matchboards up aloft where they was nailed to the beams. No wonder I smelled smoke! And he showed me a hole in the tablecloth! Then he pried up the boards, got up into the attic, out by the trap-door on to the roof, and when Comely and me was a-nosing round here in the smoke, chok’ it all! Mounseer was down the rain-pipe and under full sail for the road. Never have I bin so done afore, sir, and in the king’s name, too."
"Never mind, Joe. You came after him like a Briton, and if you and Comely hadn’t arrived on the scene when you did, I’m afraid there would have been a different story to tell the admiral to-day. I’m going to Portsmouth this afternoon. And I’ll take care the admiral knows about your pluck and your stanchness as a king’s man under persecution."
"Thank ’ee kindly, sir. And you won’t forget to say a word for Comely, sir?"
"Not I. Comely and Gumley—a fine pair of warriors. Good-by."
When Jack got back to the Grange, he found that the squire had paid his promised visit to Mr. Gudgeon. Mr. Bastable laughed as he related the interview.
"He had the flutters very badly, Jack. I put it to him as delicately as I could. Said that recent events had given the neighborhood a bad name, especially as it had been found that some one had been selling information to the French. Suspicion might easily fall on the wrong person, I said; and I wound up by suggesting that when next winter comes he should see that his chimneys are swept regularly. The old rascal! ’Oh dear me!’ says he, ’to think that a quiet law-abiding village like Luscombe should have harbored a French spy! It puts me in a terrible flutter, Cognac is the best cure I know, sir; maybe you’ll do me the honor to take a sip with me?’ and the rascal gave me a glass, Jack; contraband—capital stuff!"