It was not sunset when Col. Montjoy left home. Mary went to her room and threw herself upon her bed, sick at heart and anxious beyond the power of weeping. Unadvised, ignorant of the full significance of the information that had been conveyed to them, she conjured up a world of danger for her father and for Edward. Tragedy was in the air she breathed. At supper she was laboring under ill-concealed excitement. Fortunately for her, the little mother was not present. Sitting in her room, with the green glasses to which she had been reduced by the progress of her disease, she did not notice the expression of the daughter's face when she came as usual to look after the final arrangement of her mother's comfort.

By 8 o'clock the house was quiet. Throwing a light wrap over her shoulders and concealing in its folds her father's army pistol, Mary slipped into the outer darkness and whistled softly. A great shaggy dog came bounding around from the rear and leaped upon her. She rested her hand on his collar, and together they passed into the avenue. Old Isam stood there and by him the pony phaeton and mare.

"Stay up until I return, please, Uncle Isam, and be sure to meet me here!" The old man bowed.

"I'll be hyar, missy," he said. "Don't you want me to go, too?"

"No, thank you; I am going to Gen. Evan's and you must stay and look after things. Nero will go with me." The dog had already leaped into the vehicle. She sprang in also, and almost noiselessly they rolled away over the pine straw.

The old man listened; first he heard the dogs bark at Rich's then at Manuel's and then at black Henry's, nearly a mile away. He shook his head.

"Missy got somep'n on her mind! She don't make no hoss move in de night dat way for nothin'! Too fast! Too fast!"

He went off to his cabin and sat outside to smoke. And in the night the little mare sped away. On the public roads the gait was comparatively safe, and she responded to every call nobly. The unbroken shadows of the roadside glided like walls of gloom! The little vehicle rocked and swayed, and, underneath, the wheels sang a monotonous warning rhyme.

Now and then the little vehicle fairly leaped from the ground, for when Norton, a year previous, had bid in that animal at a blooded-stock sale in Kentucky, she was in her third summer and carried the blood of Wilkes and Rysdyk's Hambletonian, and was proud of it, as her every motion showed.

The little mare had the long route that night, but at last she stood before the doorway of the Cedars. The general was descending the steps as Mary gave Nero the lines.

"What! Mary—"

He feared to ask the question on his lips. She was full of excitement, and her first effort to speak was a dismal failure.

"Come! Come! Come!" he said, in that descending scale of voice which seems to have been made for sympathy and encouragment. "Calm yourself first and talk later." He had his arms around her now and was ascending the steps. "Sit right down here in this big chair; there you are!"

"You have not heard, then?" she said, controlling herself with supreme effort.

"About your father's defeat? Oh, yes. But what of that? There are defeats more glorious than victories, my child. You will find that your father was taken advantage of." She buried her face in her hands.

"It is not about that, sir—the means they used!" And then, between sobs, she told him the whole story. He made no reply, no comment, but reaching over to the rail secured his corn-cob pipe and filled it. As he struck a match above the tobacco, she saw that his face was as calm as the candid skies of June. The sight gave her courage.

"Do you not think it awful?" she ventured.

"Awful? Yes! A man to descend to such depths of meanness must have suffered a great deal on the way. I am sorry for Royson—sorry, indeed!"

"But Mr. Morgan!" she exclaimed, excitedly.

"That must be attended to," he said, very gravely. "Mr. Morgan has placed us all under heavy obligations, and we must see him through."

"You must, General; you must, and right away! They have sent for poor papa, and he has gone to town, and I—I—just could not sleep, so I came to you." He laughed heartily.

"And in a hurry! Whew! I heard the mare's feet as she crossed the bridge a mile away. You did just right. And of course the old general is expected to go to town and pull papa and Mr. Morgan out of the mud, and straighten out things. John!"

"Put the saddle on my horse at once. And now, how is the little mamma?" he asked, gently.

He held her on this subject until the horse was brought, and then they rode off down the avenue, the general following and rallying the girl upon her driving.

"Don't expect me to hold to that pace," he said. "I once crossed a bridge as fast, and faster, up in Virginia, but I was trying to beat the bluecoats. Too old now, too old."

"But you will get there in time?" she asked, anxiously.

"Oh, yes; they will be consulting and sending notes and raising points all night. I will get in somewhere along the line. When a man starts out to hunt up trouble he is rarely ever too late to find it." He saw her safely to where Isam was waiting, and then rode on to the city. He realized the complication, and now his whole thought was to keep his neighbor from doing anything rash. It did occur to him that there might be a street tragedy, but he shook his head over this when he remembered Royson. "He is too much of a schemer for that," he said. "He will get the matter into the hands of a board of honor." The old gentleman laughed softly to himself and touched up his horse.

In the meantime affairs were drawing to a focus in the city. After the abrupt departure of Gerald, Royson stood alone, holding the demand and thinking. An anxious expression had settled upon his face. He read and reread the curt note, but could find no flaw in it. He was to be held responsible for the publication; that was the injury. He was forced to confess that the idea was sound. There was now no way to involve the Montjoys and let them hush it up. He had expected to be forced to withdraw the card and apologize, but not until the whole city was informed that he did it to save a woman, and he would have been placed then in the position of one sacrificing himself. Now that such refuge was impossible he could not even escape by giving the name of his informant. He could not have given it had there been a demand.

He read between the lines that his authority was known; that he was dealing with some master mind and that he had been out-generaled somewhere. To whom had he talked? To no one except Barksdale. He gave vent to a profane estimate of himself and left the office. There was no danger now of a street assault.

Amos Royson threw himself into a carriage and went to the residence of Marsden Thomas, dismissing the vehicle. The family of Marsden Thomas was an old one, and by reason of its early reputation in politics and at the bar had a sound and honorable footing. Marsden was himself a member of the legislature, a born politician, capable of anything that would advance his fortune, the limit only being the dead-line of disgrace.

He had tied to Royson, who was slightly his elder, because of his experience and influence.

He was noted for his scrupulous regard for the code as a basis of settlement between honorable men, and was generally consulted upon points of honor.

Secure in Thomas' room, Royson went over the events of the day, including Montjoy's and Gerald's visits, and then produced the demand that had been served upon him.

Thomas had heard him through without interruption. When Royson described the entrance of Gerald, with the unlooked-for note, a slight smile drew his lips; he put aside the note, and said:

"You are in a very serious scrape, Amos; I do not see how you can avoid a fight." His visitor studied him intently.

"You must help me out! I do not propose to fight." Thomas gravely studied the note again.

"Of course, you know the object of the publication," continued Royson; "it was political. Without it we would have been beaten. It was a desperate move; I had the information and used it."

"You had information, then? I thought the whole thing was hatched up. Who gave you the information?" Royson frowned.

"My cousin, Mrs. Montjoy; you see the complication now. I supposed that no one but the Montjoys knew this man intimately, and that their hands would be tied!"

"Ah!" The exclamation was eloquent. "And the young man had another friend, the morphine-eater; you had forgotten him!" Thomas could not restrain a laugh. Royson was furious. He seized his hat and made a feint to depart. Thomas kindly asked him to remain. It would have been cruel had he failed, for he knew that Royson had not the slightest intention of leaving.

"Come back and sit down, Amos. You do us all an injustice. You played for the credit of this victory, contrary to our advice, and now you have the hot end of the iron."

"Tell me," said Royson, reverting to the note, "is there anything in that communication that we can take advantage of?"

"Nothing! Morgan might have asked in one note if you were the author of the published letter and then in another have demanded a retraction. His joining the two is not material; you do not deny the authorship."

After a few moments of silence he continued: "There is one point I am not satisfied upon. I am not sure but that you can refuse upon the ground you alleged—in brief, because he is not a gentleman. Whether or not the burden of proof would be upon you is an open question; I am inclined to think it would be; a man is not called upon in the south to prove his title to gentility. All southerners with whom we associate are supposed to be gentlemen," and then he added, lazily smiling, "except the ladies; and it is a pity they are exempt. Mrs. Montjoy would otherwise be obliged to hold her tongue!"

Royson was white with rage, but he did not speak. Secretly he was afraid of Thomas, and it had occurred to him that in the event of his humiliation or death Thomas would take his place.

This unpleasant reflection was interrupted by the voice of his companion.

"Suppose we call in some of our friends and settle this point." The affair was getting in the shape desired by Royson, and he eagerly consented. Notes were at once dispatched to several well-known gentlemen, and a short time afterward they were assembled and in earnest conversation. It was evident that they disagreed.

While this consultation was going on there was a knock at the door; a servant brought a card. Gen. Evan had called to see Mr. Thomas, but learning that he was engaged and how, had left the note.

Thomas read it silently, and then aloud:

"Marsden Thomas, Esq.—Dear Sir: I have read in to-day's paper the painful announcement signed by Mr. Royson, and have come into the city hoping that a serious difficulty might thereby be averted. To assist in the settlement of this matter, I hereby state over my own signature that the announcement concerning Edward Morgan is erroneous, and I vouch for his right to the title and privileges of a gentleman.

"Respectfully,

"Albert Evan."

The silence that followed this was broken by one of the older gentlemen present.

"This simplifies matters very greatly," he said. "Without the clearest and most positive proof, Mr. Royson must retract or fight."

They took their departure at length, leaving Royson alone to gaze upon the open note. Thomas, returning, found him in the act of drawing on his gloves.

"I am going," said Royson, "to send a message to Annie. She must, she shall give me something to go on. I will not sit quietly by and be made a sacrifice!"

"Write your note; I will send it."

"I prefer to attend to it myself!" Thomas shook his head.

"If you leave this room to-night it is with the understanding that I am no longer your adviser. Arrest by the police must not, shall not—"

"Do you mean to insinuate—"

"Nothing! But I shall take no chances with the name of Thomas!" said the other proudly. "You are excited; a word let fall—a suspicion—and we would be disgraced! Write your note; I shall send it. We have no time to lose!" Royson threw himself down in front of a desk and wrote hurriedly:

"Annie: I am cornered. For God's sake give me proofs of your statements or tell me where to get them. It is life or death; don't fail me.

"A. R."

He sealed and addressed this. Thomas rang the bell and to the boy he said: "How far is it to Col. Montjoy's?"

"Seven miles, sah!"

"How quickly can you go there and back?"

"On Pet?"

"Yes."

"One hour an' a half, sah."

"Take this note, say you must see Mrs. Norton Montjoy, Jr., in person, on important matters, and deliver it to her. Here is a $5 bill; if you are back in two hours, you need not return it. Go!"

There was a gleam of ivory teeth and the boy hurried away. It was a wretched wait, that hour and a half. The answer to the demand must go into the paper that night!

One hour and thirty-two minutes passed. They heard the horse in the street, then the boy upon the stairway. He dashed to the door.

"Miss Mary was up and at de gate when I got deir! Reck'n she hear Pet's hoof hit de hard groun' an' hit skeered her. I tole her what you say, and she sen' word dat Mrs. Montjoy done gone to sleep. I tell her you all mighty anxious for to get dat note; dat Mr. Royson up here, waitin', an' gentlemen been comin' an' goin' all night. She took de note in den and putty soon she bring back the answer!"

He was searching his pockets as he rambled over his experience, and presently the note was found. It was the same one that had been sent by Royson, and across the back was written:

"Mr. Thomas: I think it best not to awaken Annie. Papa is in town; if the matter is of great importance call upon him. I am so certain this is the proper course that it will be useless to write again or call in person to-night.

"Respectfully,

"M. M."

He passed the note to Royson in silence and saw the look of rage upon his face as he tore it into a thousand pieces.

"Even your little Montjoy girl seems to be against you," he said.

"She is!" exclaimed Royson; "she knew that my note to Annie was not in the interest of Edward Morgan, and she is fighting for him. She will follow him to the altar or the grave!"

"Ah," said Thomas, aside, drawing a long breath; "'tis the old story, and I thought I had found a new plot! Well," he continued aloud, "what next?"

"It shall not be the altar! Conclude the arrangements; I am at your service!"

"He will stick," said Thomas to himself; "love and jealousy are stronger then fear and ambition!"