Noon. Colonel McVeigh had been at the Terrace already a half day, and no sign had come from Pierson––no message of any sort. Judithe called Pluto and asked if the mail did not leave soon for down the river, and suggested 286 that when he took it to the office he would ask the man in charge to look carefully lest any letters should have been forgotten from the night before.

“Yes’m, mail go ’bout two hours now,” and he looked up at the clock. “I go right down ask ’bout any letters done been fo’got. But I don’ reckon any mail to go today; folks all too busy to write lettahs.”

“No; I––I––I will have a letter to go,” and she turned toward the desk. “How soon will you start?”

“Hour from now,” said Pluto, “that will catch mail all right;” and with that she must be content. At any other time she would have sent him at once without the excuse of a letter to be mailed. Those easy-going folk who handled the mail might easily have overlooked some message––a delay of twenty-four hours would mean nothing in their sleepy lives. But today she was unmistakably nervous––all the more reason for exceeding care.

She had begun the letter when Colonel McVeigh came for her to go to lunch; she endeavored to make an excuse––she was not at all hungry, really, it appeared but an hour since the breakfast; but perceiving that if she remained he would remain also, she arose, saying she would join their little festival on the lawn long enough for a cup of tea, she had a letter to get ready for the mail within an hour.

She managed to seat herself where she could view the road to the south, but not a horseman or footman turned in at the Terrace gate. She felt the eyes of Monroe on her; also the eyes of Gertrude Loring. How much did they know or suspect? She was feverishly gay, though penetrated by the feeling that the suspended sword hung above her. Pierson’s non-appearance might mean many things appalling––and Louise!

All these chaotic thoughts surging through her, and ever 287 beside her the voice of Kenneth McVeigh, not the voice alone, but the eyes, at times appealing, at times dominant, as he met her gaze, and forbade that she be indifferent.

“Why should you starve yourself as well as me?” he asked, softly, when she declined the dishes brought to her, and made pretense of drinking the cup of tea he offered.

“You––starving?” and the slight arching of the dark brows added to the note of question.

“Yes, for a word of hope.”

“Really? and what word do you covet?”

“The one telling me if the Countess Biron’s gossip was the only reason you sent me away.”

Mrs. McVeigh looked over at the two, well satisfied that Kenneth was giving attention to her most distinguished guest. Gertrude Loring looked across to the couple on the rustic seat and felt, without hearing, what the tenor of the conversation was. Kenneth McVeigh was wooing a woman who looked at him with slumbrous magnetic eyes and laughed at him. Gertrude envied her the wooing, but hated her for the laughter. All her life Kenneth McVeigh had been her ideal, but to this finished coquette of France he was only the man of the moment, who contributed to her love of power, her amusement. For the girl, who was his friend, read clearly the critical, half contemptuous gleams, alternating at times the graciousness of Madame Caron’s dark eyes. She glanced at Monroe, and guessed that he was no more pleased than herself at the tete-a-tete there, and that he was quite as watchful.

And the cause of it all met Colonel McVeigh’s question with a glance, half alluring, half forbidding, as she sipped the tea and put aside the cup.

“How persistent you are,” she murmured. “If you adopt the same methods in warfare I do not wonder at your 288 rapid promotions. But I shan’t encourage it a moment longer; you have other guests, and I have a letter to write.”

She crossed to Mrs. McVeigh, murmured a few words of excuse, exchanged a smile with Evilena, who declared her a deserter from their ranks, and then moved up the steps to the veranda and passed through the open window into the library, pausing for a little backward glance ere she entered; and the people on the lawn who raised their glasses to her, did not guess that she looked over their heads, scanning the road for the expected messenger.

Looking at the clock she seated herself, picked up the pen, and then halted, holding her hand out and noting the trembling of it.

“Oh, you fool! You woman!” she said, through her closed teeth.

She commenced one letter, blotted it in her nervous impatience, turned it aside and commenced another, when Captain Monroe appeared at the window with a glass of wine in his hand.

“Why this desertion from the ranks?” he asked, jestingly, yet with purpose back of the jest. She recognized, but ignored it.

“That you might be detailed for special duty, perhaps, Captain Jack,” she replied, without looking around.

“I have to look up stragglers,” and he crossed to the desk where she sat. “I even brought you a forgotten portion of your lunch.”

She looked up at that, saw the glass, and shook her head; “No, no wine for me.”

“But it would be almost treasonable to refuse this,” he insisted. “In the first place it is native Carolina wine we are asked to take; and in the second, it is a toast our bear of the swamps––Mr. Loring––has proposed, ‘our President.’ 289 I evaded my share by being cup-bearer to you.” He offered the glass and looked at her, meaningly, “Will you drink?”

“Only when you drink with me,” she said, and smiled at the grim look touching his face for an instant.

“To the President of the Southern Confederacy?” he asked.

“No!––to our President!”

She took the glass, touched the wine to her lips, and offered the remainder to him, just as Colonel McVeigh entered from the lawn. He heard Captain Monroe say, “With all my heart!” as he emptied the glass. The scene had such a sentimental tinge that he felt a swift flash of jealousy, and realized that Monroe was a decidedly attractive fellow in his own cool, masterful way.

“Ah! a tryst at mid-day?” he remarked, with assumed lightness.

“No; only a parley with the enemy,” she said, and he passed out into the hall, picking up his hat from the table, where he had tossed it when he entered in the morning.

Monroe walked up to the window and back again. She heard him stop beside her, but did not look up.

“I have almost decided to take your advice, and remain only one night instead of two,” he said, at last. “I can’t approve what you are doing here. I can’t help you, and I can’t stay by and be witness to the enchantment which, for some reason, you are weaving around McVeigh.”

“Enchantment?”

“Well, I can’t find a better word just now. I can’t warn him; so I will leave in the morning.”

“I really think it would be better,” she said, looking up at him frankly. “Of all the American men I have met I value your friendship most; yes, it is quite true!” as he 290 uttered a slight exclamation. “But there are times when even our good angels hamper us, and just now I am better, much better, alone.”

“If I could help you––”

“You could not,” she said hastily. “Even without the barrier of the parole, you could not. But I cannot talk. I am nervous, not myself today. You saw how clumsy I was when I brought the letter to show?––and after all did not get to show it. Well, I have been like that all day. I have grown fearful of everything––distrustful of every glance. Did you observe the watchfulness of Miss Loring on the lawn? Still, what does it matter?”

She leaned her head on her hands for a few moments. He stood and looked at her somberly, not speaking. When she turned towards him again it was to ask in a very different tone if he would touch the bell––it was time for Pluto to start with the mail. When he entered she found that a necessary address book had been left in her own apartments.

“You get the mail bag while I go for it, Pluto,” she said after tossing the papers about in a vain search; “and Captain Monroe, will you look over this bit of figures for me? It is an expense list for my yacht, I may need it today and have a wretched head for business details of that sort. I am helpless in them.”

Then she was gone, and Monroe, with a pencil, noted the amount, corrected a trifling mistake, and suddenly became conscious that the grave, most attentive, black man, was regarding him in a manner inviting question.

“Well, my man, what is it?” he asked, folding up the paper, and speaking with so kindly a smile that Pluto stumbled eagerly into the heart of questions long deferred.

“Jes’ a word, Mahs Captain. Is it true you been took prisoner? Is it true the Linkum men are whipped?”

“Well, if they are they don’t know it; they are still fighting, any way.”

“If––if they win,” and Pluto looked around nervously as he asked the question, “will it free us, Mahs Captain? We niggahs can’t fine out much down heah. Yo’ see, sah, fust off they all tell how the Nawth free us sure if the Nawth won the battles. Then––then word done come how Mahsa Linkum nevah say so. Tell me true, Mahs Captain, will we be free?”

His eagerness was so intense, Monroe hesitated to tell him the facts. He understood, now, why the dark face had been watching him so hungrily ever since his arrival.

“The men who make the laws must decide those questions, my man,” he said, at last. ‘In time freedom certainly will be arranged for––but––”

“But Mahsa Linkum ain’t done said it yet––that it, Mahsa?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Thank yo’, sah,” and Monroe heard him take a deep breath, sad as tears, when he turned into the hall for the mail bag.

A stranger was just coming up the steps, a squarely built, intelligent-eyed man, with a full dark beard; his horse, held by one of the boys under a shade tree, showed signs of hard riding, and the fact that he was held instead of stabled, showed that the call was to be brief.

The servants were clearing away the lunch things. Mrs. McVeigh had entered the house. Delaven and Gertrude were walking beside Loring’s chair, wheeled by Ben, along the shady places. Evilena was coming towards them from across the lawn, pouting because of an ineffectual attempt 292 to catch up with Ken, whom she fancied she saw striding along the back drive to the quarters, but he had walked too fast, and the hedge had hidden him. She came back disappointed to be asked by Delaven what sort of uniform she was pursuing this time, to which he very properly received no reply except such as was vouchsafed by silent, scornful lips and indignant eyes.

Masterson, who was walking thoughtfully alone, noted this distribution of the people as the stranger dismounted, inquired of Caroline for Madame Caron, and was received by Pluto at the door. The man wore a dark blue suit, plain but for a thin cord of gold on collar and sleeve. He did not recognize it as a uniform, yet instinctively associated it with that other blue uniform whose wearer had caused him an annoyance he would not soon forget. He was there alone now with Madame Caron for whom this stranger was asking. He wondered if Colonel McVeigh was there also, but concluded not, as he had seen him on the western veranda with his hat on. All these thoughts touched him and passed on as he stood there looking critically at the dusty horse.

At the same moment he heard the thud, thud of another horse turning in at the Terrace gates; the rider was leaning forward as though urging the animal to its utmost. At sight of Masterson he threw up his hand to attract attention, and the others on the lawn stared at this second tumultuous arrival and the haste Captain Masterson made to hear what he had to say––evidently news of importance from the coast or the North.

Loring hoped it meant annihilation of some Yankee stronghold, and Evilena hoped it did not mean that Kenneth must leave before the party.

The man whom Pluto showed into the library with the information that Madame Caron would be down at once, glanced about him quickly, and with annoyance, when he found there was another man in the room. But the instant Monroe’s face was seen by him, he uttered an exclamation of pleasure.

“By Jove! Captain Jack?” and he turned to him eagerly, after noting that Pluto had left the door.

“I don’t think I know you, sir, though you evidently know one of my names,” and his tone was not particularly cordial as he eyed the stranger.

“Don’t you remember the night run you made on the yacht Marquise, last March?” and the man’s tone was low and hurried. “I had no beard then, which makes a difference. This trip is not quite so important, but has been more annoying. I’ve been followed, have doubled like a hare for hours, and don’t believe I’ve thrown them off the track after all. I have a message to deliver; if I can’t see Madame alone at once you get it to her.”

“Can’t do it; don’t want to see it!” and Monroe’s tone was quick and decided as the man’s own. “I am on parole.”

“Parole!” and the stranger looked at him skeptically. “Look here, you are evidently working with Madame, and afraid to trust me, but it’s all right. I swear it is! I destroyed the message when I saw I was followed, but I know the contents, and if you will take it––”

“You mistake. I have absolutely no knowledge of Madame’s affairs at present.”

“Then you won’t take it?” and the man’s tones held smothered rage. “So, when put to the test, Captain Jack Monroe is afraid to risk what thousands are risking for the cause, at the front and in secret––a life!”

“It is just as well not to say ‘afraid,’ my good fellow,” 294 and Monroe’s words were a trifle colder, a shade more deliberate. “Do you know what a parole means? I excuse your words because of your present position, which may be desperate. If you are her friend I will do what I can to save you; but the contents of the dispatch I refuse to hear.”

Judithe entered the door as he spoke, and came forward smilingly.

“Certainly; it was not intended that you should. This is the captain of my yacht, and his messages only interest me.”

“Madame Caron!” and Monroe’s tones were imploring, “Consider where you are. Think of the risks you run!”

“Risks?” and she made a little gesture of disdain. She felt so much stronger now that the suspense was over––now that the message was really here. “Risks are fashionable just now, Monsieur, and I always follow the fashions.”

He shook his head hopelessly; words were of no use. He turned away, and remembering that he still held the slip with her account on, he halted and handed it to the stranger, who was nearest him.

“I presume these figures were meant for the master of your yacht,” he remarked, without looking at her, and passed out on the veranda, where he halted at sight of Masterson running up the steps, and the dusty rider close behind.

Judithe had seated herself at the desk and picked up the pen. But as Monroe stepped out on the veranda she turned impatiently:

“The despatch?” and she held out her hand.

“I was followed––I read and destroyed it.”

“Its contents?”

“Too late, Madame,” he remarked, in a less confidential tone, as he laid the slip Monroe had given him on the 295 desk. He had seen Masterson at the door and with him the other rider!

Judithe did not raise her head. She was apparently absorbed in her task of addressing an envelope.

“I will speak with you directly,” she said, carelessly sealing the letter. He bowed and stood waiting, respectfully. Glancing up, she saw Captain Masterson, who had entered from the veranda, and bestowed on him a careless, yet gracious smile. Pluto brought the mail bag in from the hall, and she dropped the letter in, also a couple of papers she took from the top of the desk.

“There, that is all. Make haste, please, Pluto,” and she glanced at the clock. “I should not like that letter to miss the mail; it is important.”

“Yes’m, I gwine right away now,” and he turned to the door, when Masterson stepped before him, and to his astonishment, took the bag from his hand.

“You can’t take this with you,” he said, in a tone of authority. “Go tell Colonel McVeigh he is needed here on business most important.”

Pluto stared at him in stupid wonder, and Judithe arose from her chair.

“Go, by all means, Pluto,” she said, quietly, “Captain Masterson’s errand is, no doubt, more important than a lady’s could be,” and she moved towards the door.

“I apologize, Madame Caron, for countermanding your orders,” said Masterson, quickly, “but circumstances make it necessary that no person and no paper leave this room until this man’s identity is determined,” and he pointed to the messenger. “Do you know him?”

“Certainly I know him; he is in my employ, the sailing master of my yacht.”

Pluto came in again and announced, “Mahs Kenneth 296 not in the house; he gone somewhere out to the quarters.” Masterson received the news with evident annoyance. There was a moment of indecision as he glanced from the stranger to Monroe, who had sauntered through the open window, and across to Judithe, who gave him one glance which he interpreted to mean she wished he was somewhere else. But he only smiled and––remained.

“There is only one thing left for me to do in Colonel McVeigh’s absence,” said Masterson, addressing the group in general, “and that is to investigate this affair myself, as every minute’s delay may mean danger. Madame Caron, we are forced to believe this man is a spy.” Judithe smiled incredulously, and he watched her keenly as he continued: “More, he is associated with a clever French creole called Louise Trouvelot, who says she is your maid and who is at present under surveillance in Savannah, and they both are suspected of being only agents for a very accomplished spy, who has been doing dangerous work in the South for many months. I explain so you will comprehend that investigation is necessary. This man,” and he pointed to the other stranger, who now stepped inside, “has followed him from the coast under special orders.”

“What a dangerous character you have become!” said Judithe, turning to her messenger with an amused smile. “I feared that beard would make you look like a pirate, but I never suspected this of you––and you say,” she added, turning to Masterson, “that my poor maid is also under suspicion? It is ridiculous, abominable! I must see to it at once. The girl will be frightened horribly among such evidences of your Southern chivalry,” and she shrugged her shoulders with a little gesture of disdain. “And what, pray, do you intend doing with my sailor here?”

The man had been staring at Masterson as though astounded 297 at the accusations. But he did not speak, and the Confederate agent never took his eyes off him.

“Ask him his name,” he suggested, softly, to Masterson, who took paper and pencil from the desk and handed it to the suspect. “Write your name there,” he said, and when it was quickly, good naturedly done, the self-appointed judge read it and turned to Judithe.

“Madame Caron, will you please tell me this man’s name?” and the messenger himself stared when she replied, haughtily:

“No, Captain Masterson, I will not!”

“Ah, you absolutely refuse, Madame?”

“I do; you have accused my employe of being a spy, but your attitude suggests that it is not he, but myself, whom you suspect.”

“Madame, you cannot comprehend the seriousness of the situation,” and Masterson had difficulty in keeping his patience. “Every one he speaks with, everything concerning him is of interest. These are war times, Madame Caron, and the case will not admit of either delays or special courtesies. I shall have to ask you for the paper he placed in your hands as I entered the room.”

Judithe picked up the paper without a word and reached it to him, with the languid air of one bored by the entire affair.

He glanced at it and handed it back. As he did so he perceived an unfinished letter on the desk. In a moment his suspicions were aroused; that important letter in the mail bag!

“You did not complete the letter you were writing?”

“No,” and she lifted it from the desk and held it towards him. “You perceive! I was so careless as to blot the paper; do you wish to examine that?”

His face flushed at the mockery of her tone and glance. He felt it more keenly, that the eyes of Monroe were on him. The task before him was difficult enough without that additional annoyance.

“No, Madame,” he replied, stiffly, “but the situation is such that I feel justified in asking the contents of the envelope you sealed and gave to the servant.”

“But that is a private letter,” she protested, as he took it from the mail bag; “it can be of no use to any government or its agents.”

“That can best be determined by reading it, Madame. It certainly cannot go out in this mail unless it is examined.”

“By you?––oh!” And Judithe put out her hand in protest.

“Captain Masterson!”

“Sir!” and Masterson turned on Monroe, who had spoken for the first time. As he did so Judithe deliberately leaned forward and snatched the letter from his hand.

“You shall not read it!” she said, decidedly, and just then Evilena and her brother came along the veranda, and with them Delaven. Judithe moved swiftly to the window before any one else could speak.

“Colonel McVeigh, I appeal to you,” and involuntarily she reached out her hand, which he took in his as he entered the room. “This––gentleman––on some political pretense, insists that I submit to such examinations as spies are subject to. I have been accused in the presence of these people, and in their presence I demand an apology for this attempt to examine my private, personal letters.”

“Captain Masterson!” and the blue steel of McVeigh’s eyes flashed in anger and rebuke. But Masterson, strong in his assurance of right, held up his hand.

“You don’t understand the situation, Colonel. That man is suspected of being the assistant to a most dangerous, unknown spy within our lines. He has been followed from Beaufort by a Confederate secret service agent, whom he tried to escape by doubling on the road, taking by-ways, riding fully twenty miles out of his course, to reach this point unobserved.”

For the first time the suspected man spoke, and it was to Judithe.

“That is quite true, Madame. I mean that I rode out of my way. But the reason of it is that I came over the road for the first time; there were no sign-boards up, and my directions had not been explicit enough to prevent me losing my way. That is my only excuse for not being here earlier. I am not landsman enough to make my way through the country roads and timber.”

“You perceive, Colonel McVeigh, the man is in my employ, and has come here by my orders,” said Judithe, with a certain impatience at the density of the accuser.

“That should be credential enough,” and McVeigh’s tone held a distinct reprimand as he frowned at Masterson’s senseless accusation, but that officer made a gesture of protest. He was being beaten, but he did not mean to give up without a hard fight.

“Colonel, there were special reasons for doubt in the matter. Madame Caron, apparently, does not know even the man’s name. I asked him to write it––here it is,” and he handed McVeigh the paper. “I asked her to name him––she refused!”

“Yes; I resented the manner and reason for the question,” assented Judithe; “but the man has been the master of my yacht for over a year, and his name is Pierson––John T. Pierson.”

“Correct,” and McVeigh glanced at the paper on which the name was written. “Will you also write the name of Madame Caron’s yacht, Mr. Pierson?” and he handed him a book and pencil. “Pardon me,” and he smiled reassuringly at Judithe, “this is not the request of suspicion, but faith.” He took the book from Pierson and glanced at the open page and then at her––“the name of your yacht is?––”

“The Marquise,” she replied, with a little note of surprise in her voice, as she smiled at Evilena, who had slipped to her side, and understood the smile. Evilena and she had made plans for a season of holidays on that same yacht, as soon as the repairs were made. Colonel McVeigh tossed the book indignantly on the table.

“Thank you, Madame! Captain Masterson, this is the most outrageous thing I ever knew an officer to be guilty of! You have presumed to suspect a lady in my house––the guest of your superior officer, and you shall answer to me for it! Mr. Pierson, you are no longer under suspicion here, sir. And you,” he added, turning to the Confederate secret agent, “can report at once to your chief that spies are not needed on the McVeigh plantation.”

“Colonel McVeigh, if you had seen what I saw––”

“Madame Caron’s word would have been sufficient,” interrupted McVeigh, without looking at him. And Judithe held out the letter.

“I am quite willing you should see what he saw,” she said, with a curious smile. “He saw me, after the arrival of Mr. Pierson, seal an envelope leaving him in ignorance of its contents. The seal is yet unbroken––will you read it?”

“You do not suppose I require proof of your innocence?” he asked, refusing the letter, and looking at her fondly as he dare in the presence of the others.

“But I owe it to myself to offer the proof now,” she insisted, 301 “and at the same time I shall ask Mr. Pierson to offer himself for personal search if Captain Masterson yet retains suspicion of his honesty;” she glanced towards Pierson, who smiled slightly, and bowed without speaking. Then she turned to Delaven, who had been a surprised onlooker of the scene.

“Dr. Delaven, in the cause of justice, may I ask you to examine the contents of this letter?” and she tore open the envelope and offered it.

“Anything in the wide world to serve you, Madame la Marquise,” he answered, with a shade more than usual of deference in his manner, as he took it. “Are the contents to be considered professionally, that is, confidentially?”

She had taken Evilena by the hand, bowed slightly to the group, and had moved to the door, when he spoke. Monroe, who had watched every movement as he stood there in a fever of suspense for her sake, drew a breath of relief as she replied:

“Oh, no! Be kind enough to read it aloud, or Captain Masterson may include you in the dangerous intrigues here,” and, smiling still, she passed out with Evilena to the lawn.

But a few seconds elapsed, when a perfect shout of laughter came from the library. The special detective did not share in it, for he thrust his hands into his pockets with a curse, and Masterson turned to him with a frowning, baffled stare––an absolutely crestfallen manner, as he listened to the following, read in Delaven’s best style:

“To Madame Smith, “Mobile, Ala.:

“The pink morning gown is perfect, but I am in despair over the night robes! I meant you to use the lace, not the 302 embroidery, on them; pray change them at once, and send at the same time the flounced lawn petticoats if completed. I await reply.

“Judithe de Caron.”