“Certainly, I apologize,” and Masterson looked utterly crushed by his mistaken zeal; “apologize to every one concerned, collectively and individually.”

Even McVeigh felt sorry for his humiliation, knowing how thoroughly honest he was, how devoted to the cause; and Mrs. McVeigh was disconsolate over “loyal, blundering Phil Masterson,” whom, she could not hope, would remain for the party after what had occurred, and she feared Judithe would keep to her room––who could blame her? Such a scene was enough to prostrate any woman.

But it did not prostrate Judithe. She sent for Mrs. McVeigh, to tell her there must on no account be further hostilities between Colonel McVeigh and Captain Masterson.

“It was all a mistake,” she insisted. “Captain Masterson no doubt only did his duty when presented with the statements of the secret service man; that the statements were incorrect was something Captain Masterson could not, of course, know, and she appreciated the fact that, being a foreigner, she was, in his opinion, possibly, more likely to be imposed upon by servants who were not so loyal to the South as she herself was known to be.”

All this she said in kindly excuse, and Mrs. McVeigh thought her the most magnanimous creature alive.

Her only anxiety over the entire affair appeared to be 303 concerning her maid Louise, who, also, was suffering the suspicion attaching to foreigners who were non-residents; it was all very ridiculous, of course, but would necessitate her going personally to Savannah. She could not leave so faithful a creature in danger.

Mrs. McVeigh prevailed upon her to send word with Mr. Pierson to the authorities, and remain herself for two days longer––until Kenneth and his men left for the front, which Judithe consented to do.

Masterson, who for the first time in his life found the McVeighs lacking in cordiality to him (Evilena, even, disposed to look on him as dead and buried so far as she was concerned), felt his loyal heart go out to Gertrude, who was the only one of them all who frankly approved, and who was plainly distressed at the idea of him going at once to join his company.

“Don’t go, Phil,” she said, earnestly; “something is wrong here––terribly wrong; I can’t accuse anyone in particular––I can’t even guess what it really means, but, Phil,” and she glanced around her cautiously before putting the question, “What possible reason could Madame Caron and Captain Monroe have for pretending they met here as strangers, when it was not a fact?”

Whereupon Gertrude told him of her discovery in that direction.

“I can’t, of course, mention it to Kenneth or Mrs. McVeigh, now,” she whispered; “they are so infatuated with her, Kenneth in particular. But I do hope you will put aside your personal feelings; make any and every sort of apology necessary, but remain right here until you see what it all means. You may prove in the end that you were not entirely mistaken today. What do you think of it?”

Think! His thoughts were in a whirl. If Madame Caron 304 and Captain Monroe were secretly friends it altered the whole affair. Monroe, whose conduct on arrest was unusual; who had a parole which might, or might not, be genuine; who had come there as by accident just in time to meet Pierson; who had been in the room alone with Pierson before Madame Caron came down the stairs––he knew, for he had been in sight when she crossed the hall.

He had been a fool––right in theory, but wrong as to the individual. He would remain at the Terrace, and he would start on a new trail!

Mrs. McVeigh was very glad he would remain; she believed implicitly in his profound regret, and had dreaded lest the question be recalled between the two men after they had gone to the front; but, if Phil remained their guest, she hoped the old social relations would be completely restored, and she warned Evilena to be less outspoken in regard to her own opinions.

So, Captain Masterson remained, and remained to such purpose that during the brief hour of Mr. Pierson’s stay he was watched very closely, and the watcher was disappointed that no attempt was made at a private interview with Captain Monroe, who very plainly (Masterson thought, ostentatiously) showed himself in a rather unsocial mood, walking thoughtfully alone on the lawn, and making no attempt to speak, even with Madame Caron.

Pierson had a brief interview with her, rendered the more brief that he was conscious of Masterson’s orderly lounging outside the window, but plainly within hearing, and the presence of Mrs. McVeigh, who was all interest and sympathy concerning Louise.

When he said: “Don’t be at all disturbed over the work to be done, Madame; there is plenty of time in which to complete everything,” the others present supposed, of 305 course, he referred to the repairs on the yacht; and when he said, in reply to her admonitions, “No fear of me losing the road again, I shall arrive tonight,” they supposed, of course, he referred to his arrival at the coast. Judithe knew better; she knew it meant his return, and more hours of uncertainty for her.

Colonel McVeigh helped to keep those hours from dragging by following up his love-making with a proposal of marriage, which she neither accepted or declined, but which gave her additional food for thought.

All the day Pluto brooded over that scene in the library. He was oppressed by the dread of harm to Madame Caron if some one did not at once acquaint her with the fact that the real spy was Madame’s maid, who had fled for fear of recognition by the Lorings. He had been curious as to what motive had been strong enough to bring her back to the locality so dangerous to her freedom. He was puzzled no longer––he knew.

But, how to tell Madame Caron? How could a nigger tell a white lady that story of Rhoda and Rhoda’s mother? And if part was told, all must be told. He thought of telling Dr. Delaven, who already knew the history of Margeret, but Dr. Delaven was a friend to the Lorings, and how was a nigger to know what a white man’s honor would exact that he do in such a case? And Pluto was afraid to ask it.

Instinctively his trust turned to the blue uniformed “Linkum soldier.” No danger of him telling the story of the runaway slave to the wrong person. And he was Madame Caron’s friend. Pluto had noted how he stepped beside her when Masterson brought his accusation against her, or her agent, Pierson. Monroe had been a sort of divinity to him from the moment the officer in blue had walked up the steps of the Terrace, and Pluto’s admiration culminated 306 in the decision that he was the one man to warn Madame Caron of her maid’s identity without betraying it to any other.

The lady who caused all this suppressed anxiety was, apparently, care-free herself, or only disturbed slightly over the report concerning Louise. She knew the girl was in no real danger, but she knew, also, that at any hint of suspicion Louise would be in terror until joined by her mistress.

She heard Matthew Loring had sent over for Judge Clarkson to arrange some business affairs while Kenneth was home, and despite Mrs. McVeigh’s statement that they neither bought nor sold slaves, she fancied she knew what one of the affairs must be.

Judge Clarkson, however, was not at home––had been called across the country somewhere on business, but Aunt Sajane sent word that they would certainly be over in the evening and would come early, if Gideon returned in time.

But he did not. Several of the guests arrived before them; Colonel McVeigh was employed as host, and the business talk had to be deferred until the following morning.

Altogether, the sun went down on a day heavy with threats and promises. But whatever the rest experienced in that atmosphere of suppressed feeling, Kenneth McVeigh was only responsive to the promises; all the world was colored by his hopes!

And Monroe, who saw clearly what the hopes were, and who thought he saw clearly what the finale would be, had little heart for the festivities afoot––wished himself anywhere else but on the hospitable plantation of the McVeighs, and kept at a distance from the charming stranger who had bewitched the master of it.

Twilight had fallen before Pluto found the coveted opportunity 307 of speaking with him alone. Monroe was striding along the rose arbor, smoking an after-supper cigar, when he was suddenly confronted by the negro who had questioned him about the Federal policy as to slavery.

He had been running along the hedge in a stooping position so as not to be seen from the windows of the dining room, where the other servants were working, and when he gained the shadows of an oleander tree, straightened up and waited.

“Well,” remarked Monroe, as he witnessed this maneuver, “what is it?”

Pluto looked at him steadily for an instant, and then asked, cautiously:

“Mahs Captain, you a sure enough friend of Madame Caron?”

“‘Sure enough’ friend––what do you mean?”

“I mean Madame Caron gwine to have trouble if some sure enough friend don’t step in an’ tell her true who the spy is they all talk ’bout today.”

“Indeed?” said Monroe, guardedly; his first thought was one of suspicion, lest it be some trick planned by Masterson.

“Yes, sah; I find out who that woman spy is, but ain’t no one else knows! I can’t tell a white lady all that story what ain’t noways fitten’ fo’ ladies to listen to, but––but somebody got to tell her, somebody that knows jest how much needs tellen’, an’ how much to keep quiet––somebody she trusts, an’ somebody what ain’t no special friend o’ the Lorings. Fo’ God’s sake, Mahsa Captain, won’t yo’ be that man?”

Monroe eyed him narrowly for an instant, and then tossed away the cigar.

“No fooling about this business, mind you,” he said, 308 briefly; “what has Madame Caron to do with any spy? And what has Matthew Loring?”

“Madame not know she got anything to do with her,” insisted Pluto, eagerly, “that gal come heah fo’ maid to Madame Caron, an’ then ole Nelse (what Lorings use to own) he saw her, an’ that scare her plum off the place. An’ the reason why Mahsa Loring is in it is ’cause that fine French maid is a runaway slave o’ his––or maybe she b’long to Miss Gertrude, I don’ know rightly which it is. Any how, she’s Margeret’s chile an’ ought to a knowed more’n to come a ’nigh to Loring even if she is growd up. That why I know fo’ suah she come back fo’ some special spy work––what else that gal run herself in danger fo’ nothen’?”

“You’d better begin at the beginning of this story, if it has one,” suggested Monroe, who could see the man was intensely in earnest, “and I should like to know why you are mixing Madame Caron in the affair.”

“She bought my baby fo’ me––saved him from the trader, Mahsa Captain,” and Pluto’s voice trembled as he spoke. “Yo’ reckon I evah fo’get that ar? An’ now seems like as how she’s got mixed up with troubles, an’ I come to yo’ fo’ help ’cause yo’ a Linkum man, an’ ’cause yo’ her frien’.”

It was twenty minutes later before Pluto completed his eager, hurried story, and at its finish Monroe knew all old Nelse had told Delaven, and more, too, for confidential servants learn many hidden things, and Rosa––afterwards Pluto’s wife––knew why Margeret’s child was sent to the Larue estate for training. Mistress Larue, whose conscience was of the eminently conventional order, seldom permitting her to contest any decision of her husband, yet did find courage to complain somewhat of the child’s charge and her ultimate destination––to complain, not on moral, but on financial grounds––fully convinced that so wealthy a 309 man as Matthew Loring could afford to pay more for her keeping than the sum her husband had agreed to, and that the youth, Kenneth McVeigh, to whose estate the girl was partly sold, could certainly afford more of recompense than his guardian had agreed to.

Pluto told that portion of the story implicating his master with considerable reluctance, yet felt forced to tell it all, that Monroe should be impressed with the necessity of absolute secrecy to every one except Madame Caron, and she, of course, must not hear that part of it.

“Name o’ God, no!” burst out Pluto, in terror of what such a revelation would mean. “What yo’ reckon Madame Caron think o’ we all ef she done heah that? Don’t reckon his own ma evah heard tell a whisper o’ that ar; all Mahs Matt Loring’s doin’s, that sale was––must a been! Mahs Ken wan’t only a boy then––not more’n fifteen, so yo’ see––”

Monroe made no comment, though he also had a vision of what it would mean if Madame Caron––she of all women!––should hear this evidently true story just as Pluto related it.

He walked along the rose hedge and back again in silence, the colored man regarding him anxiously; finally he said:

“All right, my man. I’ll speak to Madame and be careful not to tell her too much. You are all right, Pluto; you did right to come to me.”

Some one called Pluto from the window. He was about to go when Monroe asked:

“What about that picture you said your wife had of the girl? Madame Caron may not be easy to convince. You’d better let me have it to show her. Is it a good likeness?”

“’Fore God I don’ know! I only reckon it is, ’cause 310 Nelse took her, on sight, fo’ Margeret’s ghost, which shows it must be the plain image of her! I done been so upset since I got back home with Zekal I nevah had a minute to look ovah Rosa’s b’longens’, but the likeness is in that bundle somewhere; Rosa alles powerful careful o’ that locket thing, an’ kep’ it put away; don’t mind as I evah seen it but once, jest when we fust married. I’d a clean fo’got all ’bout it, only fo’ an accident––an’ that’s the woman now it was painted from.”

He pointed to a window where Margeret stood outlined for an instant against the bright background.

“Don’t look more like her now, I reckon,” he continued, “all her trouble must a’ changed her mightily, fo’ the ole folks do say she was counted a beauty once. Little Rhoda went a’most crazy when some one stole the locket, so Rosa said; then by and by the gal what took it got scared––thought it was a hoodoo––an’ fetched it back, but Rhoda gone away then. My Rosa took it an’ kep’ it faithful, waiten’ fo’ that chile to come back, but she nevah come back while Rosa lived.”

Monroe was staring still at the figure of Margeret, seen dimly, now, through the window.

“Look here!” he said, sharply, “if the old man recognized the likeness, how comes it that the mother herself did not see it?”

“Why, Margeret she not get here till nex’ day after Madame Caron’s maid start down the river to take the cars fo’ Savannah,” explained Pluto. “Then Miss Gertrude come a visiten’ an’ fetch Margeret along. Yo’ see, sah, that woman done been made think her chile dead a long time ago, an’ when Margeret went clean ’stracted the word went down to Larues that she dead or dyen’––one! any way my Rosa nevah know’d no different till Larues moved back from 311 Georgy, so there wan’t no one heah to ’dentify her, an’ there wan’t no one heah to let that gal know she had a liven mammy.”

Again Caroline called Pluto.

“Go on,” said Monroe, “but get me the picture soon as you can. I leave in the morning.”

“I be right heah with it in hour’s time,” promised Pluto; “don’ reckon I can slip away any sooner, a sight o’ quality folks a’ comen’.”