After passing the compliments of the day we launched into a general conversation, I attempting to speak with a touch of the Irish brogue, thinking that it would induce him to believe me to be a foreigner. I would have addressed him with a Spanish accent, but was fearful that it would help to betray me, Baker as well as others having been told that I was of Spanish extraction, while I did not know as yet how much real information the secret-service chief might have with regard to me, or whether this fellow was one of his officers or not. I was playing a rather desperate game, but I felt tolerably sure of being able to deal with the gentleman. I confess, however, to having felt considerable anxiety, although I strove to conceal it from my companion.
"You are going to Canada, are you not?" inquired my new-made friend.
"Yes, sir."
"Do you live there?"
"O, no, sir. I live in England. I am only going to Canada to visit some friends."
"Have you been in America long?"
"Only about eight months."
"How do you like this country? Don't you think it is a finer country than England?"
"O, I like living in England much better than I do here, and expect to go back so soon as I get through with my Canada visit. There is too much fighting going on here to suit me."
"O, you need not mind that; besides, the war will soon be over now."
"Do you think so?" I queried. I am afraid just with the least touch of sarcasm, and for fear he might have noticed something unpleasant in my tone, added, "I will be glad when the fighting is over. It is terrible to hear every day of so many men being killed."
"O, that is nothing; we get used to it."
"Yes," I mentally said, "it may be nothing to such a shirk as you, for you will take precious good care to keep your carcass out of danger."
The detective now took out of his pocket the photograph which my associate in New York had given him, and which I was anxious to see, and handing it to me, said, "Did you ever see anybody resembling this? I am after the lady, and would like very much to find her."
