Miss Loring glanced about in surprise when she found no one in the room but her uncle and Madame Caron.

“Oh, I did not know you had left your room,” she remarked, going towards him; “do you think it quite wise? And the storm; isn’t it dreadful?”

“I have endeavored to make him forget it,” remarked Judithe, “and trust I have not been entirely a failure.”

She was idly fingering the volumes in the book-case, and glanced over her shoulder as she spoke. Her hands trembled, but her teeth were set under the smiling lips––she was waiting for his accusation.

“I have no doubt my uncle appreciates your endeavors,” returned Gertrude, with civil uncordiality, as she halted back of his chair, “but he is not equal to gayeties today; last night’s excitement was quite a shock to him, as it was to all of us.”

“Yes,” agreed Judithe; “we were just speaking of it.”

“Phil Masterson tells me the men will be here some time today for Captain Monroe,” continued Gertrude, still speaking from the back of his chair, over which she was leaning. “Phil’s orderly just returned from following the spy last night. Caroline made us think at first it was the guard already from the fort, but that was a mistake; she could not see clearly because of the storm. And, uncle, he came back without ever getting in sight of the man, though he rode until morning before he turned back; isn’t it too bad for––”

Something in that strange silence of the man in the chair suddenly checked the speech on her lips, and with a quick movement she was in front of him, looking in his face, into the eyes which turned towards her with a strange, horrible expression in them, and the lips vainly trying to speak, to give her warning. But the blow of paralysis had fallen again. He was speechless, helpless. Her piercing scream brought the others from the sitting room; the stricken man was carried to his own apartment by order of Dr. Delaven, who could give them little hope of recovery; his speech might, of course, return as it had done a year before, after the other paralytic stroke, but––

Mrs. McVeigh put her arm protectingly around the weeping girl, comprehending that even though he might recover his speech, any improvement must now be but a temporary respite.

At the door Gertrude halted and turned to the still figure at the book case.

“Madame Caron, you––you were talking to him,” she said, appealingly, “you did not suspect, either?”

“I did not suspect,” answered Judithe, quietly, and then they went out, leaving her alone, staring after them and then at the chair, where but a few minutes ago he had been seated, full of a life as vindictive as her own, if not so strong; 369 and now––had she murdered him? She glanced at the mirror back of the writing desk, and saw that she was white and strange looking; she rubbed her hands together because they were so suddenly cold. She heard some one halt at the door, and she turned again to the book-case lest whoever entered should be shocked at her face.

It was Evilena who peered in wistfully in search of some one not oppressed by woe.

“Kenneth’s last day home,” she lamented, “and such a celebration of it; isn’t it perfectly awful? Just as if Captain Monroe and the storm had not brought us distress enough! Of course,” she added, contritely, “it’s unfeeling of me to take that view of it, and I don’t expect you to sympathize with me.” There was a pause in which she felt herself condemned. “And the house all lit up as for a party; oh, dear; it will all be solemn as a grave now in spite of the lights, and our pretty dresses; well, I think I’ll take a book into the sitting room. I could not possibly read in here,” and she cast a shrinking glance towards the big chair. “Is that not Romeo and Juliet under your hand? That will do, please.”

Judithe took down the volume, turned the leaves rapidly, and smiled.

“You will find the balcony scene on the tenth page,” she remarked.

And then they both laughed, and Evilena beat a retreat lest some of the others should enter and catch her laughing when the rest of the household were doleful, and she simply could not be doleful over Matthew Loring; she was only sorry Kenneth’s day was spoiled.

The little episode, slight as it was, broke in on the unpleasant fancies of Judithe, and substituted a new element. She closed the glass doors and turned towards the window, quite herself again.

She stepped between the curtains and looked out on the driving storm, trying to peer through the grey sheets of falling rain. The guard, then, according to Miss Loring, had not yet arrived, after all, and the others, the Federals, had a chance of being first on the field; oh, why––why did they not hurry?

The pelting of the rain on the window prevented her from hearing the entrance of Colonel McVeigh and the Judge, while the curtain hid her effectually; it was not until she turned to cross the room into the hall that she was aware of the two men beside the table, each with documents and papers of various sorts, which they were arranging. The Judge held one over which he hesitated; looking at the younger man thoughtfully, and finally he said:

“The rest are all right, Kenneth; it was not for those I wanted to see you alone, but for this. I could not have it come under your mother’s notice, and the settlement has already been delayed too long, but your absence, first abroad, then direct to the frontier, and then our own war, and Mr. Loring’s illness––”

He was rambling along inconsequently; McVeigh glanced at him, questioningly; it was so rare a thing to see the Judge ill at ease over any legal transaction, but he plainly was, now; and when his client reached over and took the paper from his hand he surrendered it and broke off abruptly his rambling explanation.

McVeigh unfolded the paper and glanced at it with an incredulous frown.

“What is the meaning of this agreement to purchase a girl of color, aged twelve, named Rhoda Larue? We have bought no colored people from the Lorings, nor from any one else.”

“The girl was contracted for without your knowledge, 371 my boy, before your majority, in fact; though she is mentioned there as a girl of color she was to all appearances perfectly white, the daughter of an octaroon, and also the daughter of Tom Loring.”

The woman back of the curtain was listening now with every sense alert, never for one instant had it occurred to her that Kenneth McVeigh did not know! How she listened for his next words!

“And why should a white girl like that be bought for the McVeigh plantation?”

There was a pause; then Clarkson laid down the other papers, and faced him, frankly:

“Kenneth, my boy, she was never intended for the McVeigh plantation, but was contracted for, educated, given certain accomplishments that she might be a desirable personal property of yours when you were twenty.”

McVeigh was on his feet in an instant, his blue eyes flaming.

“And who arranged this affair?––not––my father?”

“No.”

“Thank God for that! Go on, who was accountable?”

“Your guardian, Matthew Loring. He explains that he made the arrangement, having in mind the social entanglement of boys within our own knowledge, who have rushed into unequal marriages, or––or associations equally deplorable with scheming women who are alert where moneyed youth is concerned. Mr. Loring, as your guardian, determined to forestall such complications in your case. From a business point of view he did not think it a bad investment, since, if you for any reason, objected to this arrangement, a girl so well educated, even accomplished, could be disposed of at a profit.”

McVeigh was walking up and down the room.

“So!” he said, bitterly, “that was Matthew Loring’s amiable little arrangement. That girl, then, belonged not to his estate, but to Gertrude’s. He was her guardian as well as mine; he would have given me the elder sister as a wife, and the younger one as a slave. What a curse the man is! It is for such hellish deeds that every Southerner outside of his own lands is forced to defend slavery against heavy odds. The outsiders never stop to consider that there is not one man out of a thousand among us who would use his power as this man has used it in this case; the many are condemned for the sins of the few! Go on; what became of the girl?”

“She was, in accordance with this agreement, sent to a first-class school, from which she disappeared––escaped, and never was found again. The money advanced from your estate for her education is, therefore, to be repaid you, with the interest to date; you, of course, must not lose the money, since Loring has failed to keep his part of the contract.”

“Good God!” muttered McVeigh, continuing his restless walk; “it seems incredible, damnable! Think of it!––a girl with the blood, the brain, the education of a white woman, and bought in my name! I will have nothing––nothing to do with such cursed traffic!”

Neither of them heard the smothered sobs of the woman kneeling there back of that curtain; all the world had been changed for her by his words.

She did not hear the finale of their conversation, only the confused murmur of their voices came to her; then, after a little, there was the closing of a door, and Colonel McVeigh was alone.

He was seated in the big chair where Matthew Loring had received the stroke which meant death. The hammock 373 was still beside it, and she knelt there, touching his arm, timidly.

He had not heard her approach, but at her touch he turned from the papers.

“Well, my sweetheart, what is it?” he said, and with averted face she whispered:

“Only that––I love you!––no,” as he bent towards her, “don’t kiss me! I never knew––I never guessed.”

“Never guessed that you loved me?” he asked, regarding her with a quizzical smile. “Now, I guessed it all the time, even though you did run away from me.”

“No, no, it is not that!” and she moved away, out of the reach of his caressing hands. “But I was there, by the window; I heard all that story. I had heard it long ago, and I thought you were to blame. I judged you––condemned you! Now I see how wrong I was––wrong in every way––in every way. I have wronged you––you! Oh, how I have wronged you!” she whispered, under her breath, as she remembered the men she looked for, had sent for––the men who were to take him away a prisoner!

“Nonsense, dear!” and he clasped her hands and smiled at her reassuringly. “You are over-wrought by all the excitement here since yesterday; you are nervous and remorseful over a trifle; you could not wrong me in any way; if you did, I forgive you.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head and gazing at him with eyes more sad than he had ever seen them; “no, you would not forgive me if you knew; you never will forgive me when you do know. And––I must tell you––tell you everything––tell you now––”

“No, not now, Judithe,” he said, as he heard Masterson’s voice in the hall. “We can’t be alone now. Later you shall tell me all your sins against me.” He was walking 374 with her to the door and looking down at her with all his heart in his eyes; his tenderness made her sorrows all the more terrible, and as he bent to kiss her she shrunk from him.

“No, not until I tell you all,” she said again, then as his hands touched hers she suddenly pressed them to her lips, her eyes, her cheek; “and whatever you think of me then, when you do hear all, I want you to know that I love you, I love you, I love you!”

Then the door closed behind her and he was standing there with a puzzled frown between his eyes when Masterson entered. Her intense agitation, the passion in her words and her eyes!––He felt inclined to follow and end the mystery of it at once, but Masterson’s voice stopped him.

“I’ve been trying all morning to have a talk, Colonel,” he said, carefully closing the door and glancing about. “There have been some new developments in Monroe’s case, in fact there have been so many that I have put in the time while waiting for you, by writing down every particle of new testimony in the affair.” He took from his pocket some written pages and laid them on the table, and beside them a small oval frame. “They are for your inspection, Colonel. I have no opinion I care to express on the matter. I have only written down Miss Loring’s statements, and the picture speaks for itself.”

McVeigh stared at him.

“What do you mean by Miss Loring’s statement?––and what is this?”

He had lifted the little frame, and looked at Masterson, who had resolutely closed his lips and shook his head. He meant that McVeigh should see for himself.

The cover flew back as he touched the spring, and a girl’s face, dark, bright, looked out at him. It was delicately 375 tinted and the work was well done. He had a curious shock as the eye met his. There was something so familiar in the poise of the head and the faint smile lurking at the corner of the mouth.

There was no mistaking the likeness; it looked as Judithe might possibly have looked at seventeen. He had never seen her with that childish, care-free light of happiness in her eyes; she had always been thoughtful beyond her years, but in this picture––

“Where did you get this?” he asked, and his face grew stern for an instant, as Masterson replied:

“In Captain Monroe’s pocket.”

He opened his lips to speak, but Masterson pointed to the paper.

“It is all written there, Colonel; I really prefer you should read that report first, and then question me if you care to. I have written each thing as it occurred. You will see Miss Loring has also signed her name to it, preferring you would accept that rather than be called upon for a personal account. Your mother is, of course, ignorant of all this––”

McVeigh seemed scarcely to hear his words. Her voice was yet sounding in his ears; her remorseful repetition, “You will never forgive me when you do know!”––was this what she meant?

He laid down the picture and picked up the papers. Masterson seated himself at the other side of the room with his back to him, and waited.

There was the rustle of paper as McVeigh laid one page after another on the table. After a little the rustle ceased. Masterson looked around. The Colonel had finished with the report and was again studying the picture.

“Well?” said Masterson.

“I cannot think this evidence at all conclusive.” There 376 was a pause and then he added, “but the situation is such that every unusual thing relating to this matter must, of course, be investigated. I should like to see Margeret and Captain Monroe here; later I may question Madame Caron.”

His voice was very quiet and steady, but he scarcely lifted his eyes from the picture; something about it puzzled him; the longer he looked at it the less striking was the likeness––the character of Judithe’s face, now, was so different.

He was still holding it at arm’s length on the table when Margeret noiselessly entered the room. She came back of him and halted beside the table; her eyes were also on the picture, and a smothered exclamation made him aware of her presence. He closed the frame and picked up the report Masterson had given him.

“Margeret,” he said, looking at her, curiously, “have you seen Madame Caron today?”

“Yes, Colonel McVeigh;” she showed no surprise at the question, only looked straight ahead of her, with those solemn, dark eyes. He remembered the story of her madness years ago, and supposed that was accountable for the strange, colorless, passive manner.

“Did she speak to you?”

“No, sir.”

Judithe opened the door and looked in; seeing that McVeigh was apparently occupied, and not alone, she was about to retire when he begged her to remain for a few minutes. He avoided her questioning eyes, and offered her a chair, with that conventional courtesy reserved for strangers. She noted the papers in his hand, and the odd tones in which he spoke; she was, after all, debarred from confessing; she was to be accused!

“A slight mystery is abroad here, and you appear to be 377 the victim of it, Madame,” he said, without looking at her. “Margeret, last night when Miss Loring sent you into the corridor just before the shot was fired, did you see any of the ladies or servants of the house?”

“No, sir.”

There was not the slightest hesitation in the reply, but Judithe turned her eyes on the woman with unusual interest. Colonel McVeigh consulted his notes.

“Miss Loring distinctively heard the rustle of a woman’s dress as her door opened; did you hear that?”

“No, sir.”

“You saw no one and heard no one?”

“No one.”

There was a pause, during which he regarded the woman very sharply.

Judithe arose.

“Only your sister or myself could have been in that corridor without passing Miss Loring’s door; is Miss Loring suspicious of us?––Miss Loring!”––and her tone was beyond her control, indignant; of all others, Miss Loring! “Margeret, whatever you saw, whatever you heard in that corridor, you must tell Colonel McVeigh––tell him!”

Margeret turned a calm glance towards her for a moment, and quietly said, “I have told him, Madame Caron; there was no one in the corridor.”

“Very well; that is all I wanted to know.” His words were intended for dismissal, but she only bent her head and walked back to the window, as Masterson entered with Monroe. The latter bowed to Judithe with more than usual ceremony, but did not speak. Then he turned a nonchalant glance towards McVeigh, and waited. The Colonel looked steadily at Judithe as he said:

“Captain Monroe, did you know Madame Caron before 378 you met her in my house? You do not answer! Madame Caron, may I ask you if you knew Captain Monroe previous to yesterday?”

“Quite well,” she replied, graciously; there was almost an air of bravado in her glance. She had meant to tell him all; had begged him to listen, but since he preferred to question her before these men, and at the probable suggestion of Miss Loring––well!

Masterson drew a breath of relief as she spoke. His Colonel must now exonerate him of any unfounded suspicions; but Monroe regarded her with somber, disapproving eyes.

“Then,” and his tone chilled her; it has in it such a suggestion of what justice he would mete out to her when he knew all; “then I am, under the circumstances, obliged to ask why you acknowledged the introduction given by Miss Loring?”

“Oh, for the blunder of that I was accountable, Monsieur,” and she smiled at him, frankly, the combative spirit fully awake, now, since he chose to question her––her!––before the others, “I should have explained, perhaps––I believe I meant to, but there was conversation, and I probably forgot.”

“I see! You forgot to explain, and Captain Monroe forgot you were acquainted when he was questioned, just now.”

“Captain Monroe could not possibly forget the honor of such acquaintance,” retorted Monroe; “he only refused to answer.”

The two men met each other’s eyes for an instant––a glance like the crossing of swords. Then McVeigh said:

“Where did you get the picture found on your person last night?”

“Stole it,” said Monroe, calmly, and McVeigh flushed in 379 quick anger at the evident lie and the insolence of it; he was lying then to shield this woman who stood between them––to shield her from her husband.

“Madame Caron,” and she had never before heard him speak in that tone; “did you ever give Captain Monroe a picture of yourself?”

“Never!” she said, wonderingly. Margeret had taken a step forward and stood irresolutely as though about to speak; she was very pale, and Monroe knew in an instant who she was––not by the picture, but from Pluto’s story last night. The terror in her eyes touched him, and as McVeigh lifted the picture from the table, he spoke.

“Colonel McVeigh, I will ask you to study that picture carefully before you take for granted that it is the face of any one you know,” he said, quietly; “that picture was made probably twenty years ago.”

“And the woman?”

“The woman is dead––died long ago.” Margeret’s eyes closed for an instant, but none of them noticed her. Judithe regarded Monroe, questioningly, and then turned to McVeigh:

“May I not see this picture you speak of, since––”

But Monroe in two strides was beside the table where it lay.

“Colonel McVeigh, even a prisoner of war should be granted some consideration, and all I ask of you is to show the article in question to no one without first granting me a private interview.”

Again the eyes of the men met and the sincerity, the appeal of Monroe impressed McVeigh; something might be gained by conceding the request––something lost by refusing it, and he slipped the case into his pocket without even looking at Judithe, or noticing her question.

But Monroe looked at her, and noted the quick resentment at his speech.

“Pardon, Madame,” he said, gently; “my only excuse is that there is a lady in the question.”

“A lady who is no longer living?” she asked, mockingly. She was puzzled over the affair of the picture, puzzled at the effect it had on McVeigh. In some way he was jealous concerning it––jealous, how absurd, when she adored him!

Monroe only looked at her, but did not reply to the sceptical query. Gertrude Loring came to the door just then and spoke to McVeigh, who went to meet her. She wanted him to go at once to her uncle. He was trying so hard to speak; they thought he was endeavoring to say “Ken––Ken!” It was the only tangible thing they could distinguish, and he watched the door continually as though for someone’s entrance.

McVeigh assured her he would go directly, but she begged him to postpone all the other business––anything! and to come with her at once; he might be dying, he looked like it, and there certainly was some one whom he wanted; therefore––

He turned with a semi-apologetic manner to the others in the room.

“I shall return presently, and will then continue the investigation,” he said, addressing Masterson; “pending such action Captain Monroe can remain here.”

Then he closed the door and followed Gertrude.

Judithe arose at that calm ignoring of herself and moved to the table. She guessed what it was the dying man was trying to tell Kenneth––well, she would tell him first!

Pen and paper were there and she commenced to write, interrupting herself to turn to Masterson, who was looking out at the storm.

“Is there any objection to Captain Monroe holding converse with other––guests in the house?” she asked, with a little ironical smile.

Masterson hesitated, and then said: “I do not think a private interview could be allowed, but––”

“A private interview is not necessary,” she said, coolly. “You can remain where you are. Margeret, also, can remain.” She wrote a line or two, and then spoke without looking up, “Will you be so kind, Captain Monroe, as to come over to the table?”

“At your service, my lady.”

He did so, and remained standing there, with his hands clasped behind him, a curious light of expectancy in his eyes.

“You have endured everything but death for me since last night,” she said, looking up at him. She spoke so low Masterson could not hear it above the beat of the rain on the window. But he could see the slight bend of Monroe’s head and the smile with which he said:

“Well––since it was for you!”

“Oh, do not jest now, and do not think I shall allow it to go on,” she said, appealingly. “I have been waiting for help, but I shall wait no longer;” she pointed to the paper on the table, “Colonel McVeigh will have a written statement of who did the work just as soon as I can write it, and you shall be freed.”

“Take care!” he said, warningly; “an avowal now might only incriminate you––not free me. There are complications you can’t be told––”

“But I must be told!” she interrupted. “What is there concerning me which you both conspire to hide? He shall free you, no matter what the result is to me; did you fancy I should let you go away under suspicion? But, that picture! You must make that clear to me. Listen, I will confess 382 to you, too! I have wronged him––Colonel McVeigh––it has been all a mistake. I can never atone, but”––and her voice sank lower, “it was something about that picture made him angry just now, the thought I had given you some picture. I––I can’t have him think that––not that you are my lover.”

“Suppose it were so––would that add to the wrongs you speak of?” His voice was almost tender in its gentleness, and his face had a strange expression, as she said: “Yes, it would, Captain Jack.”

“You mean, then––to marry him?”

Something in the tenseness of his tones, the strange look of anxiety in his eyes, decided her answer.

“I mean that I have married him.”

She spoke so softly it was almost a whisper, but if it had been trumpet-like he could not have looked more astonished. His face grew white, and he took a step backward from her. Masterson, who noticed the movement, walked down to the desk, where he could hear. Margeret was nearer to them than he. All he heard was Madame Caron asking if Captain Monroe would not now agree that she should see the picture since it was necessary to defend herself.

But Monroe had gone back to his chair, where he sat looking at her thoughtfully, and looking at Margeret, also, who had remained near the door, and gave no sign of having heard their words––had she?

“No, Madame Caron,” he said, quietly, “if there is any evidence in my favor you can communicate to Colonel McVeigh, I shall be your debtor, but the picture is altogether a personal affair of my own. I will, if I can, prevent it from being used in this case at all, out of consideration for the lady whom I mentioned before.”