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 had some way o' paying ye for it. And I—I—fear I have no way o' doing that!"

Jaffray looked at him calculatingly for a moment. "Jones," he said at last, in a pseudo-frank tone, "there is a way o' paying me for the trifle an ye wish."

"Truly!" Young Cy's glance, which had dropped despairingly, flashed upward in sudden hope. "I would pay anyway I might—service or grain—I have half a crop which my father let me have last fall! Speak quickly, sir!"

Again Jaffray studied him coolly. Then he seated himself and drew the boy into another chair beside him while Charity watched in surprise.

"Jones," he began quietly, "in this war with England, there are many for her, many against her. I told you a falsehood last week when I met you in Newark. I let you think me a patriot. On the contrary, I am a Loyalist."

Young Cy stiffened in his chair. "But you told—told me" he stammered.

Jaffray nodded, his face all kindly concern.

"Let every man have his own beliefs, I say," he went on reasonably. "What matters it what I believe or what you do? The thing that matters is this spyglass which ye say ye desire. There is a small way you can pay me for it—a slight bit of information"—he shot a look at the boy's amazed expression—"information which will not hurt any one to give or me to receive. If I asked you to tell me about—the 'Jersey Blues'—what would you say, young sir?"

As Captain Jaffray's suave voice died away in the