Ellen had accepted the letters without protest; and since the two of them had been at a loss as to what else to do, they had made the journey to St. John’s. On the way they had discussed the letters. Ellen had told him, Joseph said, how I had accused her aunt of being a spy, and how I had feared Ellen might be used to the hurt of the American cause. She had begun to suspect that I had been correct; and that the letters she was carrying were not innocent ones. If this was the case, Ellen had said, it was not right that she should have been asked to carry them. They held a long discussion as to what should be done. Ellen was for destroying the letters: Joseph for opening them. Joseph prevailed; but when they were opened, there was nothing in them. The pages were blank.

“Blank?” I cried.

“Trick,” Joseph said. “Old trick! Everybody know! Write in onion juice.”

They had heated the letters over a fire and the writing had appeared. One letter contained a map of Albany with certain buildings marked: the other a list of names. In Joseph’s opinion it was a list of Tories in Albany who could be depended on to take up arms against the rebels in case Burgoyne broke through. There had been two hundred and eight names in the letter.

Ellen was furious, Joseph said, but he himself had thought more of the results of being caught with such letters. He had destroyed them with no loss of time.

I was sick at the thought of the danger to which Marie de Sabrevois had subjected Ellen. “Where were you when you opened the letters?” I asked.

“Bouquet River,” Joseph said.

Bouquet River was almost opposite Split Rock, not far north of Crown Point.

“For God’s sake,” I said. “You knew I was still in Skenesboro at that time! Why didn’t you turn around and come back to me?”

Joseph smiled ruefully. “She ashamed. She think you too much good man.”

“Too much good man!” So that was what Ellen thought of me! It was not entirely satisfactory, but it was better than nothing.

“Joseph,” I said, “I hope you were careful not to let your aunt know what you’d discovered.”

“You think I pick up rattlesnake by middle?” he asked. “My aunt bad woman. My aunt do anything. Woman like that in St. Francis, we cut off nose.”

I had already learned enough about Indian customs from Verrieul to know that nose-cutting was reserved for Indian ladies whose morals were not what they should be.

“Lanaudiere’s no relation to her, is he?”

Joseph shook his head. “Friend. Lanaudiere, friend; Burgoyne, friend. Friend have money—give much money—she like money—much money. She like money very much. Rich soon, I think.”

“What happened when you got back to your aunt? How’d Ellen explain not having the letters for her?”