"I don't understand you," protested Webster.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the ruffian, a glitter of triumph and hatred in his eyes. "You've been playin' it fine on the boys here for the last three weeks, but d--n you, I'll spoil your little game!"
"What do you mean?" demanded Webster, his anger beginning to rise. "You speak in riddles."
"I'll tell you what I mean!" blustered the bully. "Gentlemen," turning toward the crowd, and pointing his finger toward the detective; "that man is leagued with the Yankees, and comes among you as a spy."
There was a general start of astonishment, and Webster himself was dumfounded.
"Oh, nonsense, Zigler," spoke up one of the men, after a death-like silence of several moments. "You must be drunk to make such an assertion as that. There is not a better Southern man in Baltimore than Mr. Webster."
"I am as sober as the soberest man here," declared Zigler; "and I reckon I know what I am talking about. I saw that fellow in Washington yesterday."
"I can well believe that you saw me in Washington yesterday," said Webster, quietly, "for I certainly was there. I have just been telling these gentlemen what I saw and heard while there."
"Maybe you have, but I'll bet ten dollars you didn't tell 'em that you had a conversation with the _chief of the detective force_ while you were there!"
Webster, it must be admitted, was wholly unprepared for this, but he realized in an instant that the bully's insinuation must be denied and overcome. With an assumption of uncontrollable rage he cried out "You are a liar and a scoundrel!"
[Illustration: "_The man reeled half way across the room, and fell prostrate between two tables._" P. 277.]
"I am, eh?" hissed Zigler through his clenched teeth, and before any one could make a movement to restrain him he sprang furiously toward Webster.
Quick as was this movement, however, Webster was prepared for him. Like a flash of lightning his fist flew straight out from the shoulder, striking the ruffian between the eyes, with a force that would have felled an ox. The man reeled half-way across the room, and fell prostrate between two tables.
With a roar like that of a baffled beast, Zigler gathered himself up and rushed at Webster, flourishing above his head a murderous-looking knife. But, as if by magic, a revolver appeared in the detective's hand, the muzzle of which covered his adversary's heart.