"Come on, Mortimer, and we'll soon find out what is going on." I turned to the prisoner. "Where are the rest of your gang?"

"You'll find out fer yerself, Mister," he answered sullenly, "an' maybe damn quick too."

"They are in the grape arbor to the south of the house," broke in Eric. "That was where Fagin told them to lie quiet and wait orders."

"Then we will explore along the north side, keeping the fence between us. I've got a handful of men over there in the orchard. If you are both ready we'll go."

I took a look myself at Tom's rope-tying, and found it satisfactory. Indeed, in remembrance of my own suffering, I even loosened the strain a little, confident the fellow could never free himself unaided. Then the three of us, Mortimer armed with his late guard's gun, crawled up over the edge of the bank, ran without stopping across the open space, and crouched in the shadow of the fence. It was still dark, although a faint gray tinged the eastern sky-line, barely perceptible through the intervening trees. The great house, a hundred yards away, was but a blurred outline, distinguishable by the lights shining out through open windows. At that distance no sound reached us. However, if Mortimer was right, the way would be clear for our passage along the front, under shelter of the fence, even though a sentry was posted there, and we could creep up to the walls on the opposite side unobserved. All we needed to do was to advance with caution. Whispering directions into the ears of the others, I moved forward slowly, Mortimer close to my shoulder. I could see across the top rail of the fence, and the open space beyond yielded no point of concealment.

"Tell me the rest of your story," I said, speaking softly, "as we go along. Where did Fagin take you?"

"To a sand cave; we rode a night and a day to get there."

"Treat you all right?"

"Well as he could, I suppose. I had enough to eat, but was guarded closely, and the fellows were a bit rough."

"Did you gain no inkling of what they were up to?"

"No; the men I saw knew nothing, or pretended not to. I only saw Fagin twice. Once he came to assure himself that I was really myself. Somebody told him I was with Delavan in a fight over near Lone Tree."

"That was your sister."

"What! You don't mean it was Claire?"

"But I do. I chanced to be in that affair myself, and saw her. Later she, with three others—Peter, an Indian, and an Irishman—captured me, mistaking me for some one else, and took me to Elmhurst. As soon as she learned my identity she acknowledged her error. But I have not learned yet why she was with Delavan, or for whom she mistook me."

The lad drew in his breath sharply, gripping me by the shoulder.

"By the Lord Harry!" he exclaimed excitedly. "There isn't another girl in the Colonies who would have done it. I'll bet I can explain, but even I didn't think she would ever have the nerve to perform such a deed. I told you I left my papers there. I forgot them when I changed my clothes. You see I came out wearing the uniform of a British Dragoon Lieutenant, and had it all planned out to join Delavan, and guide him toward Philadelphia over the Lone Tree road. Just before I left our camp at Valley Forge on this trip I received orders from Washington to keep my eyes open for a courier riding from Philadelphia to New York with Clinton's plans of evacuation. Hamilton seemed to know all about this, and sent me special instructions. I talked of it with Claire, planned how I was going to waylay him, and together we fixed up those servants as soldiers to help me carry out the deception."

He paused, chuckling, and I halted, eager to learn the rest.

"And when you disappeared; when, perhaps, she heard of your capture, or suspected it, she assumed the discarded uniform and went forth in your stead."

"That's it, Lawrence. She would, if she thought it was right; if she believed such an act necessary to save my reputation. I'll bet she found the papers in my pocket, and mistook you for Clinton's despatch bearer."

"There is no doubt of it," I said soberly. "And that wasn't all she did to protect you. It was the talk at Lee's headquarters that you had deserted. She stamped that a lie, by riding into our lines day before yesterday, bringing an exact report of where Clinton was marching. I didn't see her, but I heard all about it, and you get the credit. Washington told me with his own lips, and granted her permission to remove your father, who was badly wounded, to Elmhurst."

"Good God! Are they here now?"

"They must have reached here early yesterday morning. I passed them on the road at ten o'clock. Grant had just joined their party, claiming to be hunting after deserters."

He clung to the fence rail, staring out toward the house.

"Grant! Do you know, I believe that fellow is at the bottom of this whole affair. He's in love with Claire, and—and he's working some scheme to gain power over her."

"Several schemes, I think," I returned heartily. "I've nipped two of them in the bud already. Someway, Mortimer, he got possession of those instructions you received from Washington and Hamilton. I ran into him over there on the lawn, back of the summer-house. He was threatening Claire, trying to drive her into marrying him offhand. We had a bit of a fight, and I got the best of it. When I left I wore his coat, and later found your papers in his pocket. Do you remember how they were addressed?"

He shook his head.

"Simply 'Mortimer.' It occurred to me he could turn them over to Clinton, accuse the Colonel of treason, and share in the confiscation of this estate, or else hold them as a threat over your sister. I burned them."

He was silent for a long minute, breathing hard; then he thrust out his hand and clasped mine.

"The damned villain!" he ejaculated, his voice trembling. "Every move he has made has been an attempt to ruin us. I can see it now. Do you suppose Claire really cares for the fellow?"

"I am very sure she does not."

"Then what, in heaven's name, does she let him hang around for? I always hated the sight of his black face and infernal grin, but somehow, I thought she rather liked him. I wonder if he can be there now! If he is, then he and Fagin are up to some devilment."

"And what that may be we'll never discover by talking here," I put in sternly, suddenly realizing we were wasting time. "Come, let's get around to the north side."

We came in back of the summer-house, and had just left the road, when three horsemen galloped past, straight up toward the front door, which stood wide open. The black shadow of a man appeared in the glow of light, shading his eyes as he looked out into the darkness.

"Is that you, Culver?"

"Yes," sullenly, the speaker swinging down from the saddle.

"Well, you've been a hell of a while getting here. Fagin will skin you alive; it's nearly daylight already."

"Did the best I could; the cantin' hypocrite wasn't at home; had to go clear to Medford after him. Come on now, get out o' that!"

He dragged the centre figure roughly from his horse, and hustled him up the steps.

"The ol' fool thinks we're goin' to kill him, I reckon; been prayin' for an hour past. Bill got so mad he choked him twice, but it didn't do no good. Here, take him along in, will yer, and let us hustle some grub."

The man addressed grabbed the limp figure far from gently, and hustled him through the door. As the others disappeared, leading the three horses, Mortimer grasped my sleeve.

"That's preacher Jenks," he whispered, "from down at the Cross Roads. What can Fagin want of him?"

"If Fagin is Grant's tool, and Grant is here," I answered soberly, "I am ready to make a guess at what is up." The recollection of the Captain's threat at the summer-house instantly recurred to memory. "Here, you lads, skulk down into these bushes, while I try that balcony. That is the library, isn't it, Eric? I thought so; I've been under guard there twice. The window shows no light, but some one is in the room beyond. Give me a leg up, Tom, and stand close so you can hear if I speak."

It was not high from the ground, but I could not grip the top of the rail without help. With Tom's assistance I went over lightly enough, and without noise. The window was the one which had been broken during the first assault on the house, and never repaired. I found ample room for crawling through. The door into the hall stood partly ajar, a little light streaming through the crack, so I experienced no difficulty in moving about freely. A glance told me the apartment was unoccupied, although I heard the murmur of distant voices earnestly conversing. Occasionally an emphatic oath sounded clear and distinct. My first thought was that the men with me would be better concealed here than in the bushes below, and I leaned over the rail, and bade them join me. Within another minute the three of us were in the room intently listening. I stole across to the crack of the door. The hall was empty so far as I could see looking toward the rear of the house, and the voices we heard were evidently in the dining-room. Occasionally there was a clatter of dishes, or the scraping of a chair on the polished floor. One voice sang out an order to a servant, a nasal voice, slightly thickened by wine, and I wheeled about, gazing inquiringly into Mortimer's face.

"That's Grant," he said quickly, "and half drunk."

"I thought so; that's when he is really dangerous. Stay close here; if the hallway is clear I am going to get into the shadow there under the stairs. Have your weapons ready."

Where the fellow was who had been at the front door I could not determine. He had disappeared somehow, and I slipped along the wall for the necessary ten feet like a shadow, and crept in beneath the shelter of the staircase. From here I could look into the room opposite, although only a portion of the space was revealed. There was no cloth on the table, and but a few dishes, but I counted a half-dozen bottles, mostly empty, and numerous glasses. Grant was at one end, his uniform dusty and stained, but his eyes alone betraying intoxication. Beside him was a tall, stoop-shouldered man, with matted beard, wearing the coat of a British Grenadier, but with all insignia of rank ripped from it. He had a mean mouth, and yellow, fang-like teeth were displayed whenever he spoke. Beyond this fellow, and only half seen from where I crouched, was a heavy-set individual, his face almost purple, with a thatch of uncombed red hair. He wore the cocked hat of a Dragoon, pushed to the back of his head, his feet were encased in long cavalry boots, crossed on the table, and he was pulling furiously at a pipe, the stem gripped firmly between his teeth. Who the bearded man might be I had no means of knowing, but this beauty was without doubt Fagin. I stared at him, fascinated, recalling the stories of his fiendish cruelty, my heart thumping violently, while my fingers gripped the butt of my pistol. Then, without warning, a man stepped out of the darkened parlor, passed within three feet of my hiding place, and stood within the dining-room door. The three within looked at him, and Fagin roared out:

"What is it now? Heard from Culver?"