Mr. Gitney, one night, called me away from my new duties serving refreshments in the parlor; he instructed that I was to come and see him in the forbidden chamber.

He sat sunk in green gloom. He gestured to a chair, and I sat. I observed that he had a pistol on the desk before him.

“Octavian,” said he, “has anyone approached you with any request?”

“We are serving tea, sir, though calling it chocolate so as not to agitate the sensibilities of Patriots.”

“Octavian,” said he, “have any voices presented themselves to you — speaking in remote quarters — which you might not, in other seasons, hearken to?”

I sat in silence. His queries were insurmountably opaque.

“A slip of paper? Something you find in a basket of eggs?” He waited a space, then continued, “Behind the smithy, concealed in smoke? Handshakes by the brick-yard?” He reached to the desk and hefted the pistol. I watched it with awe. He said, “This is a matter of some interest to us all.”

“I aver, sir, I have so little conception of the direction of this interview that I cannot offer any reply whatsoever.”

“You swear solemnly that you have no conception of what I speak.”

I raised my hand. “So do I swear.”

“You swear to Christ in heaven that you have understood not a word of this interchange?”

“I do, sir.”

“I have been in every way incomprehensible?”

“Your meaning as dark as night, sir.”

“Very good then, Octavian.” He placed the pistol on the desk and grasped my shoulder. “You know my affection for you.”

I could not answer that either.

“You are sensible of the kindnesses which have been granted freely to you in this house.”

I perceived that this interview would not conclude until I had given him assurance; and so I did, vowing that I was grateful, that I was not insensible of the considerable gifts lavished upon me; expatiating on the forthcoming dance that evening; and so, having made my lie, I bowed and made my exit.