Caroline’s departure was again interrupted by the inopportune reËntrance from the back hall of Mr. Arrelsford, who was accompanied by two soldiers, whom he directed to remain by the door. As he advanced rapidly toward Mrs. Varney, Caroline stepped aside toward the rear window.

“Is he——” began Arrelsford, turning toward the window, and starting back in surprise as he observed Caroline for the first time.

“Yes, he is there,” answered the woman.

“Oh, Mrs. Varney,” cried Caroline, “there’s a heap of soldiers out in your backyard here. You don’t reckon anything’s the matter, do you?”

The girl did not lower her voice, and was greatly surprised at the immediate order for silence which proceeded from Mr. Arrelsford, whose presence she acknowledged with a very cool, indifferent bow.

“No, there is nothing the matter, dear,” said Mrs. Varney. “Martha,” she said to the old servant who had come in response to her ring, “I want you to go home with Miss Mitford. You must not go alone, dear. Good-night.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Varney,” answered Caroline. “Come, Martha.” As she turned, she hesitated. “You don’t reckon she could go with me somewhere else, do you?”

“Why, where else do you want to go at this hour, my dear girl?” asked Mrs. Varney.

“Just to—to the telegraph office,” answered Caroline.

Mr. Arrelsford, who had been waiting with ill-concealed impatience during this dialogue, started violently.

“Now!” exclaimed Mrs. Varney in great surprise, not noticing the actions of her latest guest. “At this time of night?”

“Yes,” answered Caroline, “it is on very important business, and—I——”

“Oh,” returned Mrs. Varney, “if that is the case, Martha must go with you.”

“You know we haven’t a single servant left at our house,” Caroline said in explanation of her request.

“I know,” said Mrs. Varney, “and, Martha, don’t leave her for an instant.”

“No’m,” answered Martha, “Ah’ll take ca’ ob huh.”

As soon as she had left the room, passing between the two soldiers, Arrelsford took up the conversation. He spoke quickly and in a sharp voice. He was evidently greatly excited.

“What is she going to do at the telegraph office?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” answered the woman.

“Has she had any conversation with him?” said Arrelsford, pointing to the front of the house.

“They were talking together in this room early this evening before you came the first time, but it isn’t possible she could——”

“Anything is possible,” snapped Arrelsford impatiently. He was evidently determined to suspect everybody, and leave no stone unturned to prevent the failure of his plans. “Corporal,” he cried, “have Eddinger follow that girl. He must get to the telegraph office as soon as she does, and don’t let any despatch she tries to send get out before I see it. Let her give it in, but hold it. Make no mistake about that. Get an order from the department for you to bring it to me.” As the Corporal saluted and turned away to give the order, Arrelsford faced Mrs. Varney again. “Are they both out there?”

“Yes,” answered the woman. “Did you bring the man from Libby Prison?”

“I did, the guards have him out in the street on the other side of the house. When we get Thorne in here alone I’ll have him brought over to that back window and shoved into the room.”

“And where shall I stay?”

“Out there,” said Arrelsford, “by the lower door, opening upon the back hall. You can get a good view of everything from there.”

“But if he sees me?”

“He won’t see you if it is dark in the hall.” He turned to the Corporal who had reËntered and resumed his station. “Turn out those lights out there,” he said. “We can close these curtains, can’t we?”

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Varney, opening the rear door and drawing the heavy portiÈres, but leaving space between them so that any one in the dark hall could see through them but not be seen from the room.

“I don’t want too much light in here, either,” said Arrelsford. As he spoke he blew out the candles in the two candelabra which had been placed on the different tables, and left the large, long room but dimly illuminated by the candles in the sconces on the walls.

Mrs. Varney watched him with fascinated awe. In spite of herself there still lingered a hope that Arrelsford might be mistaken. Thorne had enlisted her interest, and he might under other conditions have aroused her matronly affections, and she was hoping against hope that he might yet prove himself innocent, not only because of his personality but as well because the thought that she might have entertained a spy was repugnant to her, and because of the honour of the Dumont family, which was one of the oldest and most important ones in the western hills of the Old Dominion.

Arrelsford meantime completed his preparations by moving the couch which Caroline Mitford had placed before the window back to the wall.

“Now, Mrs. Varney,” he said, stepping far back out of sight of the window, “will you open the curtains? Do it casually, carelessly, please, so as not to awaken any suspicion if you are seen.”

“But your soldiers, won’t they——”

“They are all at the back of the house. They came in the back way, and the field in front is absolutely clear, although I have men concealed in the street to stop any one who may attempt to escape that way.”

Mrs. Varney walked over to the window and drew back the curtains. She stood for a moment looking out into the clear, peaceful quietness of a soft spring night. The moon was full, and being somewhat low shone through the long windows and into the room, the candle light not being bright enough to dim its radiance. Her task being completed, she turned, and once more the man who was in command pointed across the hall toward the room on the other side.

“Are those women in there yet?” he asked peremptorily.

“Yes.”

“Where is the key?”

Mrs. Varney left the room and went to the door.

“It is on this side,” she said.

“Will you lock it, please?”

The woman softly turned the key in the lock, and returned to the drawing-room without a sound. As she did so the noise of the opening of one of the long French windows in the front of the room attracted the attention of both of them. Edith Varney entered the room nervously and stepped forward. She began breathlessly, in a low, feverishly excited voice.

“Mamma!”

Mrs. Varney hurried toward her and caught her outstretched hand.

“I want to speak to you,” whispered the girl.

“We can’t wait,” said Arrelsford, stepping forward.

“You must,” persisted the girl. She turned to her mother again, “I can’t do it, I can’t! Oh, let me go!”

“But, my dear,” said her mother, “you were the one who suggested that——”

“But I was sure then, and now——”

“Has he confessed?” asked Mrs. Varney.

“No, no,” answered the girl with a glance of fear and apprehension toward Arrelsford, who stood staring menacingly at her elbow.

“Don’t speak so loud,” whispered the Secret Service Agent.

“Edith,” said her mother soothingly, “what is it that has changed you?”

She waited for an answer, but none came. The girl’s face had been very pale but it now flushed suddenly with colour.

“Dear,” said her mother, “you must tell me.”

Edith motioned Mr. Arrelsford away. He went with ill-concealed impatience to the far side of the room and waited nervously to give the signal, anxious lest something should miscarry because of this unfortunate unwillingness of the girl to play her part.

“What is it, dear?” whispered her mother.

“Mamma,” said Edith, she forced the words out, “he—he—loves me.”

“Impossible!” returned Mrs. Varney, controlling her voice so that the other occupant of the room could not hear.

“Yes,” faltered the girl, “and I—some one else must do it.”

“You don’t mean,” said Mrs. Varney, “that you return——”

But Mr. Arrelsford’s patience had been strained to the breaking point. He did not know what interchange was going on between the two women, but it must be stopped. He came forward resolutely. The girl saw his determination in his face.

“No, no,” she whispered, “not that, not now!”

She shrank away from him as she spoke.

“But, Edith,” said Mrs. Varney, “more reason now than ever.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Mr. Arrelsford, “but we must go on.”

“But why—why are you doing this?” asked Edith, pleading desperately.

“Because I please,” snapped out the Secret Service Agent, and it was quite evident that he was pleased. Some of his satisfaction was due to the fact that he had by his own efforts at last succeeded in unearthing a desperate plot, and had his hands on the plotters. That he was thereby serving his country and demonstrating his fitness for his position of responsibility and trust also added to his satisfaction, but this was greatly enhanced by the fact that Thorne was his rival, and he could make a guess that he was a successful rival in love as well as in war.

“You have never pleased before,” persisted Edith. “Hundreds of suspicious cases have come up—hundreds of men have been run down—but you preferred to sit at your desk in the War Department, until——”

“Edith! Edith!” interposed her mother.

“I can’t discuss that now,” said Arrelsford.

“No, we will not discuss it. I will have nothing more to do with the affair.”

“You won’t,” whispered Arrelsford threateningly.

“Don’t say that,” urged Mrs. Varney.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” said Edith.

“At your own suggestion, Miss Varney,” persisted the Secret Service Agent vehemently, “I agreed to accept a plan by which we could criminate this friend of yours or establish his innocence. When everything is ready you propose to withdraw and make the experiment a failure, perhaps allowing him to escape altogether and being a party to treason against your own country.”

Edith looked from Arrelsford’s set face, with his bitter words, the truth of which she was too just not to acknowledge, ringing in her ears, to the face of her mother. It was a sweet face, full of sympathy and love, but it was set in the same way as the man’s. The patriotism of the woman was aroused. The kind of help that Edith wanted in her mother’s look she did not find there.

“You mustn’t do this, Edith; you must do your part,” said Mrs. Varney.

The resolution of the girl gave way.

“He is there,” she faltered piteously, “he is there at the further end of the veranda. What more do you want of me?” Her voice rose in spite of her efforts to control herself.

“Call him to the room, and do it naturally. If any one else should do it he would suspect something immediately and be on his guard.”

“Very well,” said the girl helplessly. “I will call him.”

She turned toward the window.

“Wait,” said Arrelsford, “one thing more. I want him to have this paper.” He handed Edith the communication which had been taken from Jonas earlier in the evening.

“What am I to do with this?” asked the girl, taking it.

“Give it to him, and tell him where it came from. Tell him old Jonas got it from a prisoner at Libby Prison and brought it to you.”

“But why am I to do this?” asked the girl.

“Why not? If he is innocent, what’s the harm? If not, if he is in the plot and we can’t catch him otherwise, the message on the paper will send him to the telegraph office to-night, and that’s where we want him.”

“But I never promised that,” said the girl with obvious reluctance to do anything not only that might tend to harm the suspected, but that might work to the furtherance of Arrelsford’s designs.

“Do you still believe him innocent?” sneered the man.

Edith lifted her head and for the first time she looked Arrelsford full in the face.

“I still believe him innocent,” answered the girl, slowly and with deliberate emphasis.

“Then why are you afraid to give him the paper?” asked Arrelsford, directly with cunning adroitness.

The girl, thus entrapped, clasped the paper to her breast, and turned toward the window. Her mind was made up, but it was not necessary for her to call. Her ear, tuned to every sound he made, caught the noise of his footfall on the porch. She turned her head and spoke to the other two.

“Captain Thorne is coming,” she whispered expressionlessly, “unless you want to be seen, you had better go.”

“Here, this way, Mrs. Varney,” said Arrelsford, taking that lady by the arm and going down to the far end to the door covered by the portiÈres.

The two disappeared, and it was impossible for a soul to see them in the darkness of the hall, although they could see clearly enough, even in the dimly lighted drawing-room, everything that would happen. Edith stood as if rooted to the floor, the paper still in her hand, when Thorne opened the sash which she had closed behind her and entered in his turn the window through which she had come a short time before. He stepped eagerly toward her.

“You were so long,” he whispered, “coming for me, that——” He stopped abruptly, and looked at her face, “is anything the matter?”

“No.”

“You had been away such a long time that I thought——”

“Only a few minutes.”

“Only a few years,” said the man passionately. His voice was low and gently modulated, not because he had anything to conceal but because of the softness of the moonlight and the few candles dimly flickering upon the walls of the great room, the look in the girl’s eyes, and the feeling in his heart. A few minutes, the girl had said!—Ah, it was indeed a few years to him.

“If it was a few years to you,” returned the girl with a violent effort at lightness, although her heart was torn to pieces with the emotions of the moment, “what a lot of time there is.”

“No,” said Thorne, “there is only to-night.”

Edith threw out her hand to check what she would fain have heard, but Thorne caught it. He came closer to her.

“There’s only to-night, and you in the world,” he said.

“You overwhelm me.”

“I can’t help myself. I came here determined not to tell you how I loved you, and for the last half hour I have been telling you nothing else. I could tell you all my life and never finish. Ah, my darling, my darling,—there’s only to-night and you.”

Edith swayed toward him for a moment, completely influenced by his ardour, but then drew back.

“No, no,” she faltered. “You mustn’t.” She glanced around the room apprehensively. “No, no, not now!”

“You are right,” said the man. She dragged herself away from him. He would not retain her against her will, and without a struggle he released her hand. “You are right. Don’t mind what I said, Miss Varney. I have forgotten myself, believe me.” He drew further away from her. “I came to make a brief call, to say good-bye, and——”

He turned and walked toward the hall door, after making her a low bow, and it was not without a feeling of joy that she noticed that he walked unsteadily, blindly.

“Oh, Captain Thorne,” she said, just as he had reached the door, “I——”

He stopped and looked back.

“Before you go I want to ask your advice about something.”

“My advice!”

“Yes, it seems to be a military matter, and——”

“What is it?” asked Thorne, turning back.

“What do you think this means?” said the girl, handing him the folded despatch.

She had intended to look him full in the face as he took it, but at the last moment her courage failed her. She looked away and did not see the instant but quickly mastered start of surprise. She was only conscious that Thorne had possessed himself of the document.

“What is it?” asked Thorne, holding it in his hand.

“That is what I want you to tell me,” said the girl.

“Oh, don’t you know?” said Thorne, now entirely master of himself.

“No,” answered the girl, but there was something in her voice which now fully aroused the suspicions of the man.

“It appears to be a note from some one,” he said casually, “but it is so dark in here. With your permission, I will light some of the candles on the table, and then we can see what it is.”

He took one of the candles from the sconces on the wall and lighted the candelabra that stood on the nearest table. Holding the paper near the light, he glanced around rapidly, and then read it, giving no outward evidence of his surprise and alarm, although the girl was now watching him narrowly. He glanced at her and then looked at the paper again, and slowly read aloud its message.

“‘Attack to-night?’” he said very deliberately. “Umph, ‘Plan 3? Attack to-night, plan 3!’ This seems to be in some code, Miss Varney, or a puzzle.”

“It was taken from a Yankee prisoner.”

“From a Yankee prisoner!” he exclaimed in brilliantly assumed surprise.

“Yes, one captured to-day. He is down at Libby now. He gave it to one of our servants, old Jonas, and——”

“That’s a little different,” said Thorne, examining the paper again. “It puts another face on the matter. This may be something important. ‘Attack to-night,’” he read again, “‘Plan 3, use telegraph’! This sounds important to me, Miss Varney. It looks to me like a plot to use the Department Telegraph lines. To whom did Jonas give it?”

“To no one.”

“Well, how did you——”

“We took it away from him,” answered Edith.

This was a very different statement from her original intention, but for the moment the girl forgot her part.

“Oh,” said Thorne, “I think that was a mistake.”

“A mistake?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“You should have let him deliver it, but it is too late now. Never mind.” He turned toward the door.

Edith caught him by the arm. Was he going out to certain death or what?

“What are you going to do?” she asked breathlessly.

“Find Jonas, and make him tell for whom this paper was intended. He is the man we want.”

The girl released him, and caught her throat with her hand.

“Captain Thorne,” she choked out, and there was joy and triumph in her face, “they have lied about you.”

Thorne turned to her quickly.

“Lied about me!” he exclaimed. “What do you mean?”

He caught the girl’s hands in his and bent over her.

“Don’t be angry,” pleaded Edith, “I didn’t think it would be like this.”

“Yes, yes, but what do you mean?”

Edith sought to draw her hands away from him, but Thorne would not be denied.

“I must know,” he said.

“Let me go,” pleaded the girl, “don’t you understand——”

But what she might have said further was interrupted by the sharp, stern voice of the Corporal outside. He spoke loud and clearly, there was no necessity for precaution now.

“This way! Look out for that side, will you?”

Thorne released the hands of the woman he loved and stood listening. Edith Varney took advantage of such a diversion to dart through the upper door, the nearer one, into the hall.

“I don’t want to be here now,” she said, as she flew away.

Thorne’s hand went to his revolver which hung at his belt. He had not time to draw it before the Corporal and the two men burst through the door. There were evidently others outside. Thorne’s hand fell away from his revolver, and his position was one of charming nonchalance.

“Out here!” cried the Corporal to one of the soldiers. “Look out there!” pointing to the doorway through which the two men instantly disappeared.

“What is it, Corporal?” asked Thorne composedly.

The Corporal turned and saluted.

“Prisoner, sir, broke out of Libby! We’ve run him down the street, and he turned in here somewhere. If he comes in that way, would you be good enough to let us know?”

“Go on, Corporal,” said Thorne coolly. “I’ll look out for this window.”

He stepped down the long room toward the far window, drew the curtains, and with his hand on his revolver, peered out into the trees beyond the front of the house.