Mrs. Varney had, of course, divined toward whom Arrelsford’s suspicion pointed. She had been entirely certain before he had mentioned the name that the alleged spy or traitor could be none other than her daughter’s friend; indeed, it would not be stretching the truth to say that Thorne was her friend as well as her daughter’s, and her keen mother’s wit was not without suspicion that if he were left to himself, or if he were permitted to follow his own inclinations, the relation between himself and the two women might have been a nearer one still and a dearer one, yet, nevertheless, the shocking announcement came to her with sudden, sharp surprise.

We may be perfectly certain, absolutely sure, of a coming event, but when it does occur its shock is felt in spite of previous assurance. We may watch the dying and pray for death to end anguish, and know that it is coming, but when the last low breath has gone, it is as much of a shock to us as if it had not been expected, or even dreamed of.

The announcement of the name was shattering to her composure. She knew very well why Arrelsford would rejoice to find Thorne guilty of anything, and she would have discounted any ordinary accusation that he brought against him, but the train of the circumstances was so complete in this case and the coincidences so unexplainable upon any other theory, the evidence so convincing, that she was forced to admit that Arrelsford was fully justified in his suspicion, and that without regard to the fact that he was a rejected suitor of her daughter’s.

Surprise, horror, and conviction lodged in her soul, and were mirrored in her face. Arrelsford saw and divined what was passing in her mind, and, eager to strike while the iron was hot, bent forward open-mouthed to continue his line of reasoning and denunciation, but Mrs. Varney checked him. She laid her finger upon her lips and pointed with the other hand to the front of the house.

“What!” exclaimed the Confederate Secret Service agent; “is he there?”

Mrs. Varney nodded.

“He may be. He went out to the summerhouse some time ago to wait for Edith; they were going over to Caroline Mitford’s later on. I saw him go down the walk.”

“Do you suppose my men could have alarmed him?” asked Arrelsford, greatly perturbed at this unexpected development.

“I don’t know. They were all at the back windows. They didn’t seem to make much noise. I suppose not. You have a description of the man for whom the letter was intended?”

“Yes, at the office; but I remember it perfectly.”

“Does it fit this—this Captain Thorne?”

“You might as well know sooner as later, Mrs. Varney, that there is no Captain Thorne. This is an assumed name, and the man you have in your house is Lewis Dumont.”

“Do you mean that he came here to——”

“He came to this town, to this house,” said Arrelsford vindictively, his voice still subdued but full of fury, “knowing your position, the influence of your name, your husband’s rank and service, for the sole purpose of getting recognised as a reputable person, so that he would be less likely to be suspected. He has corrupted your servants—you saw old Jonas—and he has contrived to enlist the powerful support of your daughter. His aim is the War Department Telegraph Office. He is friends with the men at that office. What else he hasn’t done or what he has, the Lord only knows. But Washington is not the only place where they have a secret service; we have one at Richmond. Whatever game he plays, it is one that two can play; and now it is my play.”

The patter of light footsteps was heard on the stairs, a flash of white seen through the open door into the hall dimly lighted, and Edith Varney came rapidly, almost breathlessly, into the room. She had changed her dress, and if Caroline Mitford had been there, she would have known certainly from the little air of festivity about her clean but faded and darned, sprigged and flowered white muslin frock that she was going to accept the invitation. In one hand she held her hat, which she swung carelessly by its long faded ribbons, and in the other that official envelope which had come to her from the President of the Confederacy. She called to her mother as she ran down.

“Mamma!” Her face was white and her voice pitched high, fraught with excited intensity. “Under my window, in the rosebushes, at the back of the house! They’re hurting somebody frightfully, I am sure!”

She burst into the room with the last word. Mrs. Varney stared at her, understanding fully who, in all probability, was being roughly dealt with in the rosebushes, and realising what a terrible effect such disclosures as she had listened to would produce upon the mind of the girl.

“Come,” said Edith, turning rapidly toward the rear window; “we must stop it.”

Mrs. Varney stood as if rooted to the floor.

“Well,” said the girl, in great surprise, “if you aren’t coming, I will go myself.”

These words awakened her mother to action.

“Wait, Edith,” she said.

Now, and for the first time, Edith noticed Mr. Arrelsford, who had stepped back and away from her mother. She replied to his salutation with a cold and distant bow. The man’s face flushed; he turned away.

“But, mamma, the men outside,” persisted the girl.

“Wait, my dear,” said her mother, taking her gently by the arm; “I must tell you something. It will be a great shock to you, I am afraid.”

“What is it, mamma? Has father or——”

“No, no, not that,” said Mrs. Varney. “A man we have trusted as a friend has shown himself a conspirator, a spy, a traitor.”

“Who is it?” cried the girl, at the same time instinctively divining—how or why she could not tell, and that thought smote her afterward—to whom the reference was being made.

Mrs. Varney naturally hesitated to say the name. Arrelsford, carried away by his passion for the girl and his hatred for Thorne, was not so reticent. He stepped toward her.

“It is the gentleman, Miss Varney, whose attentions you have been pleased to accept in the place of mine,” he burst out bitterly.

His manner and his meaning were unmistakable. The girl stared at him with a white, haughty face, in spite of her trembling lips. Mechanically she thrust the envelope with the commission into her belt, and confronted the man who loved her and whom she did not love, who accused of this hateful thing the man whom, in the twinkling of an eye, she realised she did love. Then the daughter turned to her mother.

“Is it Mr Arrelsford who makes this accusation?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Arrelsford, again answering for Mrs. Varney, “since you wish to know. From the first I have had my suspicions about this——”

But Edith did not wait for him to finish his sentence. She turned away from him with loathing, and moved rapidly toward the front window.

“Where are you going!” asked Arrelsford.

“For Captain Thorne.”

“Not now,” he said peremptorily.

The colour flamed in the girl’s cheek again.

“Mr. Arrelsford, you have said something to me about Captain Thorne. Are you afraid to say it to him?”

“Miss Varney,” answered Arrelsford hotly, “if you—if you——”

“Edith,” said Mrs. Varney, “Mr. Arrelsford has good reasons for not meeting Captain Thorne now.”

“I should think he had,” returned the girl swiftly; “for a man who made such a charge to his face would not live to make it again.”

“My dear, my dear,” said her mother, gently but firmly, “you don’t understand, you don’t——”

“Mamma,” said the girl, “this man has left his desk in the War Department so that he can have the pleasure of persecuting me.”

Both the mother and the rejected suitor noticed her identification of herself with Captain Thorne in the pronoun “me,” one with sinking heart and the other with suppressed fury.

“He has never attempted anything active in the service before,” continued Edith, “and when I ask him to face the man he accuses, he turns like a coward!”

“Mrs. Varney, if she thinks——”

“I think nothing,” said the girl furiously; “I know that Captain Thorne’s character is above suspicion.”

Arrelsford sneered.

“His character! Where did he come from—what is he?”

“For that matter,” said Edith intensely, “where did you come from, and what are you?”

“That is not the question,” was the abrupt reply.

“Neither,” said the girl, “is it the question who he is. If it were, I’d answer it—I’d tell you that he is a soldier who has fought and been wounded in service, while you——”

Arrelsford made a violent effort to control himself under this bitter jibing and goading, and to his credit, succeeded in part.

“We are not so sure of that, Miss Varney,” he said more coolly.

“But I am sure,” answered the girl. “Why, he brought us letters from Stonewall Jackson himself.”

“Has it occurred to you that General Jackson was dead before his letters were presented?” asked Arrelsford quickly.

“What does that signify if he wrote them before he was killed?”

“Nothing certainly,” assented the other, “if he wrote them.”

“The signatures and the letters were verified.”

“They may have been written for some one else and this Thorne may have possessed himself of them by fraud, or——”

“Mr. Arrelsford,” cried the girl, more and more angry, “if you mean——”

“My dear child,” said Mrs Varney, “you don’t understand. They have proofs of a conspiracy. The Yankees are going to try to break through our lines to-night, some one is going to use the telegraph, and two men in the Northern Secret Service have been sent here to do this work. One is in Libby Prison. Our faithful Jonas has been corrupted. He went there to-day and took a message from one and brought it here to deliver it to the other. They are trying to make him speak out there to tell who——Our country, our cause, is at stake.”

“Is this Mr. Arrelsford’s story?” asked the daughter stubbornly, apparently entirely unconvinced.

“No; these are facts. We had Jonas in here,” answered her mother; “caught him off his guard, and found the incriminating paper on him.”

“But he has not said it was for——” persisted Edith desperately.

“Not yet,” whispered Mr. Arrelsford, “but he will. You may be sure of that; we have means to—Oh, Corporal,” he broke off eagerly, looking toward the door where the Corporal stood, his hand at salute. “Well, speak out, what does he say?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“What have you done with him?”

“Strung him up three times, and——”

“Well, string him up again,” snarled Arrelsford. “If he won’t speak, shoot it out of him, kill the dog. We don’t need his evidence any way, there’s enough without it.”

“There is nothing,” said Edith tersely.

“By midnight,” answered Arrelsford, “you shall have all the proof——”

“There is no proof to have,” persisted the girl.

“I will show it to you at the telegraph office, if you dare to go with me.”

“Dare! I will go anywhere, even with you, for that——”

“I will call for you in half an hour then,” said Arrelsford, going toward the door.

“Wait,” interrupted Edith; “what are you going to do?”

“I am going to let him get this paper,” said Arrelsford, coming back to the table. “He will know what they want him to do, and then we’ll see him try to do it.”

“You are going to spy on him, are you?”

“I am going to prove what he is.”

“Then prove it openly at once. It is shameful to let such a suspicion rest upon an honourable man. Let him come in here, and——”

“It is impossible.”

“Then do something, something, but do it now!” cried the girl. “You will soon know that he is innocent, you must know it. Wait! You say the prisoner in Libby is his brother—that’s what you said—his brother. Bring him here. Go to the prison and bring that man here.”

“What?”

“Let them meet. Bring them face to face, then you can see whether——”

“You mean bring them together here?”

“Yes.”

“As if the prisoner were trying to escape?”

“Exactly.”

“There is something in that,” said Arrelsford; “when do you suggest——”

“Now.”

“I am willing to try it, but it depends upon you. Can you keep Thorne here?”

“I can.”

“It won’t take more than half an hour. Be out there on the veranda. When I tap on the glass bring him into this room and leave him alone. And I can rely upon you to give him no hint or sign that we suspect——”

“Mr. Arrelsford!” said the girl, indignant and haughty, and her mother stepped swiftly toward her, looking at him contemptuously, as if he should have known that such an action would be impossible for either of them.

Arrelsford gazed at them a minute or two, smiled triumphantly, and passed out of the room.

“Mamma, mamma!” moaned the girl, her eyes shut, her hand extended. “Mamma,” she repeated in anguish.

“I am here, Edith dear; I am here,” said Mrs. Varney, coming toward her and taking her tenderly in her arms.

“Do you think—do you think—that he—he could be what they say?” Her hand fell upon the commission in her belt “This commission I got for him this afternoon——”

“Yes?”

“The commission, you know, from the President, for the Telegraph Service—why, he refused to take it,” her voice rose and rang triumphantly through the room; “he refused to take it! That doesn’t look as if he wanted to use the telegraph to betray us.”

“Refused! That’s impossible!” said her mother.

“He said that it was for me that he couldn’t take it.”

“For you! Then it is true,” answered Mrs. Varney.

“No, no,” said the girl; “don’t say it.”

“Yes,” said her mother; “the infamous——” The girl tried to stifle with her hand upon her mother’s lips the words, but Mrs. Varney shook off her hand. “The spy, the traitor,” she added witheringly.

“No, no!” cried the girl, but as she spoke, conviction seemed to come to her. Why was it that her faith was not more substantially based and enduring? she asked herself. “Mamma,” she wailed, “it can’t be.” She buried her face in her hands for a moment and then tore them away and confronted her mother boldly. “Won’t you leave me alone for a little while, mamma?” she asked plaintively. “I must get——”

“I will go to Howard; I will be back in a short time, my dear,” said her mother, gently laying her hand on her daughter’s bent head.

Left alone, the girl took the commission from her belt, opened it, smoothed it out, and read it through, as if bewildered and uncomprehending. She folded it up again, and walked slowly over to one of the front windows, drew aside the curtains, and pushed it open. All was still. She listened for she knew not what. There was a footstep from the far end of the walk leading from the summerhouse, a footstep she knew. Edith moved rapidly away from the window to the table and stood by it, her hand resting upon it, her knees fairly trembling in her emotion, as she waited. The next moment the open space framed the figure of Captain Thorne. He entered fearlessly, but when his eye fell upon her there was something so strained about her attitude that a spark of suspicion was kindled in his soul. Yet his action was prompt enough. He came instantly toward her and took her hand.

“Miss Varney,” he said.

Edith watched his approach fascinated, as a bird by a serpent. His touch awakened her to action. She snatched her hand away and shrank back.

“No; don’t touch me!” she cried.

He looked at her in amazement. The spark of suspicion burst into flame, but she recovered herself instantly.

“Oh, it was you,” she faltered. She forced a smile to her lips. “How perfectly absurd I am. I am sure I ought to be ashamed of myself. Come, let’s go out on the veranda. I want to talk to you about so many things. There’s—there’s half an hour—yet before we must go to Caroline’s.”

She had possessed herself of his hand again as she spoke. She now stepped swiftly toward the window. He followed her reluctantly until they reached the opening. She stepped through it and archly looked back at him, still in the room.

“How lovely is the night,” she said with tender persuasiveness. “Come with me.”

The man looked around him hastily. Every moment was precious to him. Did Miss Varney know. If so, what did she know? What was to be gained or lost by half an hour’s delay on his part? He drew out his watch and glanced at it swiftly. There was time. He would never see her again. He might say he would possibly never see any one again after the hazards of this night. He was entitled to one brief moment of happiness. How long had she said? Half an hour. He would take it.

“Aren’t you coming, Captain Thorne?” cried the girl from the porch, all the coquettish witchery of youth and the South in her voice.

“I am coming,” answered the officer, deliberately stepping through the window, “for just half an hour,” he added.

“That will be time enough,” replied the girl, laughing.