The figure of the man approaching was hardly distinguishable, as he appeared to be leaning well forward over the saddle pommel, yet my eyes caught the glimmer of a star along a pistol barrel, and I drew up cautiously, loosening my own weapon.

"Who comes?" he questioned shortly, the low voice vibrant. "Speak quick!"

"An officer with despatches," I answered promptly, "riding to Philadelphia—and you?"

"We are taking a wounded man home," was the reply, the speaker riding forward. "Are you Continental?"

"Yes. Major Lawrence, of Maxwell's Brigade."

"Oh!" the exclamation was half smothered, the rider drawing up his horse quickly. I could distinguish the outline of his form now, the straight, slender figure of a boy, wearing the tight jacket of a Dragoon, the face shadowed by a broad hat brim.

"Unless I mistake," I ventured cordially, "you must be Eric Mortimer."

"Why do you suppose that?"

"Because while at General Washington's headquarters he mentioned that you had asked permission to take your father—Colonel Mortimer, of the Queen's Rangers—to his home at Elmhurst. You left, as I understood, an hour or two ahead of us. Am I right?"

"Yes, sir; this is Colonel Mortimer's party."

"Then we will pass on without detaining you longer, as we ride in haste. I met your father once; may I ask if his wound is serious?"

"Serious, yes, but not mortal; he was shot in the right side when Monkton fell. His horse was hit at the same time, and the animal's death struggle nearly killed his rider. The surgeon says he may be lame for life."

I reached out my hand, and, with just an instant's hesitation, he returned the clasp warmly.

"My father is suffering too much for me to ask that you speak to him, Major Lawrence," he said a little stiffly. "Perhaps later, at Elmhurst—"

"I understand perfectly," I interrupted. "I am very glad to have met you. We shall ride within a short distance of Elmhurst. Shall I leave word there that you are coming?"

"Oh, no," quickly, his horse taking a step backward, as though to a sudden tug of the rein. "That would be useless, as there is no one there."

"Indeed! I thought possibly your sister."

The lad shook his head, glancing toward the carriage. The slight motion made me think again of the wounded man we were detaining, and reminded me as well of my own duty.

"Then, good-night, sir. Sergeant, we will trot on."

The lad touched my sleeve, even as I pricked my horse with the spur, and I drew the rein taut in surprise.

"What is it?"

"Could you not send your men forward, and ride with me a moment? You could catch up with them easily within a mile or two. I—I have a word I wish to say to you—alone."

The voice was low, tremulous; the request one I saw no reason to refuse.

"Why, certainly. Sergeant, take your men down the road at an easy trot. I will join you presently."

They went by us like shadows, leaving a cloud of dust behind. The boy spoke a brief word to those in charge of the carriage, and it also began to move slowly forward.

"We will go ahead," he said, suiting the action to the word. "What I wish to say will not take long."

Within a minute, riding side by side, our horses walking rapidly, we were out of sight of the lumping shadow of the ambulance. I glanced aside curiously at my companion, noting the outlines of his slender, erect figure, wondering vaguely what his message could be. Had Claire spoken to him of me? Was he going to tell me about his sister? We must have ridden a quarter of a mile before he broke the silence.

"Major Lawrence," he began, and I noticed the face was not turned toward me. "I am sure you are not deceived, although you act the part well."

"I hardly understand."

"Oh, but I am sure you do. I—I could not permit you to go away despising me."

"But, my boy, this is all mystery—"

"Do you mean to insist you do not know—have not recognized me?"

"I—what can you mean?"

"Merely that I am Claire Mortimer," and lifting the hat, the young officer was revealed in the dim light as my lady. "Surely you knew?"

"But I did not," I insisted earnestly, recovering from my surprise, and leaning forward to look into her face. "Why should I? General Washington told me it was Eric who came for his father. Why should I suspect in this darkness?"

"I—I represented myself as Eric," she stammered.

"And was it you also who rode into our lines yesterday, telling of Clinton's whereabouts?"

"Yes," hesitatingly, her eyes lifting to my face.

"But you must listen to me, Major Lawrence; you must learn why I did so unwomanly an act."

"First answer one question."

"Gladly."

"Is there an Eric Mortimer?"

"There is," she answered frankly; "my brother. It was for his sake I did all this."

A moment I sat my saddle silently, our horses walking side by side through the night, while I endeavored to grasp the meaning of her confession. I knew that she was riding bareheaded, her face turned away.

"Go on," I said at last, "tell me the whole story."

"I will," firmly, her head uplifted. "I was tempted to do so at Elmhurst, but something seemed to seal my lips. There is now no longer any excuse for silence. I—I wish you to know, and then, perhaps, you may feel more kindly disposed toward me."

"Your father is aware—"

"No, not even my father. He is scarcely conscious of what is going on about him. Peter knows, and Tonepah," with a wave of her hand into the dark shadows.

"They are with you, then—keeping guard over him?"

"Yes; they have known from the beginning; not everything, of course, for that was not necessary. Peter is an old servant, silent and trustworthy. He would never question any act of mine, while the Indian has reason to be grateful and loyal to me. Whatever indiscretion, Major Lawrence, I may have been guilty of, I have gone nowhere unaccompanied by these two. You will believe that?"

"Yes, and whatever else you tell me."

"That now must necessarily be the entire story. As I proceed you will be convinced, I think, that only a true confidence in you would enable me to speak with such frankness. I—I know of no one else in whom I could confide, and—and the time has come when I must have help—the help of a friend. I should have explained to my father—indeed intended to do so—but now he is helpless to aid me. There is no one else I feel able to trust. I—I—you were in my thought to-night; I—I am not sure I did not even pray for your coming, and—and then God sent you."

My hand sought hers, and held it against my horse's mane.

"Tell it in your own way, dear," I whispered.

She flashed one glance into my face, leaving her hand in mine, while our horses took a dozen strides.

"It will not take long," she began, in so low a voice that I leaned forward to listen, "and you already know many of the characters, and can judge their motives. I have been strangely situated since the commencement of this war, only, surely ours is not the only family divided in its loyalty. My father was a King's officer, and felt it his duty to serve the crown. While he has said little, yet I know that down in his heart his sympathies have been with the Colonies. Those of my brother were openly from the start, and my father has never attempted to interfere with his actions. They talked it all over together, and Eric chose his own course. Only Alfred Grant made trouble, presuming on what he termed our engagement, and endeavored to force my brother to join the King's troops. The two quarrelled bitterly, and Eric, a hot-headed boy, struck him. Grant has never forgiven that blow, nor Eric's influence over me. To the latter he attributes my dislike—yet this was not true; it was because as I grew older I realized the ill character of the man."

She paused a moment, gathering the threads of thought more closely. I did not speak, preferring she should tell the story in her own way.

"The two did not meet after that for many months. The Queen's Rangers, in which regiment my father secured Grant a commission, were in New York, while Eric was stationed up the river with Morgan's riflemen. When New Jersey was invaded, both commands came south, and, because of Eric's knowledge of this country, he was detailed as scout. This reckless life was greatly to his liking; I saw him occasionally by appointment, usually at Elmhurst, and became aware that his old quarrel with Captain Grant was seemingly forgotten. There appeared to be some understanding, some special connection between them. They met once, at least, and I delivered one note between them."

"Perhaps I can explain that later," I interrupted, "from something mentioned at Lee's headquarters."

"You! Oh, I wish you could, for their relationship has mystified me; has made me afraid something might be wrong with—with Eric."

"I think not, dear; say rather with Grant."

"If that be so, then it may prove the key to all the mystery. What made their intimacy so difficult to understand was that I knew the captain's dislike of Eric had in no way diminished. He spoke of him as savagely as ever."

"Perhaps he played a part—his ultimate purpose revenge."

"It might be that—yes, it might be that, and—and the consummation of that revenge may account for all which has occurred. But I must go on with what I had to tell."

I had forgotten the passage of time, the men riding steadily in advance, constantly increasing their distance, even the possible importance of the despatch within my jacket pocket. The evident distress of the girl riding beside me, whose tale, I felt sure, would fully justify her strange masquerade in male garments, her risk of life and exposure to disgrace in midst of fighting armies, held me neglectful of all else. I realized that, whatever the cause, I had unconsciously become a part of its development, and that I was destined now to be even more deeply involved. Whatever the mystery I must solve it for her sake. My hand again sought hers, holding it in firm clasp. There was a sound of hoofs on the dusty road behind us.

"It is Peter," she whispered. "What can have happened!"

The rider barely paused, turning his horse's head even as he spoke hastily.

"Captain Grant is with the ambulance, Mistress Claire," he reported. "He came up alone about five minutes ago."