The love affair of Colonel McVeigh was not the only one under consideration that evening. Delaven was following up the advice of the Judge and Madame Caron to the extent of announcing to Mistress McVeigh during a pause in the dance that his heart was heavy, though his feet were light, and that she held his fate in her hands, for he was madly in love, which statement she had time to consider and digest before the quadrille again allowed them to come close enough for conversation, when she asked the meaning of his mystery.

“First, let me know, Mrs. McVeigh, which you would prefer if you had a choice––to have me for your family physician, or a physician in your family?”

She smiled at the excentric question, but as the dance whisked him off just then she waited for the next installment of his confidence.

“You must tell me, first, what relationship you seek to establish,” she demanded, as he came up for his answer.

He looked at her quizzically, and seeing a slight gleam of 327 humor in her fine eyes, he launched into the heart of the question.

“What relationship? Well, I should say that of husband and wife, if I was not afraid of being premature;” he glanced at her and saw that she was interested and not in the least forbidding. “To be sure, I am poor, while you are wealthy, but I’m willing to overlook that; in fact, I’m willing to overlook anything, and dare all things if you would only consider me favorably––as a son-in-law.”

“You are actually serious?”

“Serious, am I––on my faith, it’s a life and death affair with me this minute!”

“And my little Evilena the cause?”

“Yes, our Evilena, who does not feel so small as you may imagine. Look at her now. Could a dozen seasons give her more confidence in her own powers than she has this minute by reason of those uniformed admirers?––to say nothing of my own case.”

“Our Evilena?” and Mrs. McVeigh raised her brows inquiringly––“then you have proposed?”

“Indeed, no! I have not had the courage until tonight; but when I see a lot of lads daft as myself over her, I just whispered in the ear of Delaven that he’d better speak quick. But I would not propose without asking your permission.”

“And if I refused it?”

“You could not be so hard-hearted as that?”

“But suppose I could––and should?”

He caught the gleam of teasing light in her eyes, and smiled back at her:

“I should propose just the same!”

“Well,” said Evilena’s mother, with a combination of amusement and sympathy in her expression, “you may speak to her and let me know the result.”

“I’d get down on my knees to kiss the toe of your slipper, this minute,” he whispered, gratefully, “but the Judge would scalp me if I dared; he is eyeing me with suspicion already. As to the result––well, if you hear a serenade in the wee small hours of the night, don’t let it disturb you. I’ve got the guitar and the uniform all ready, and if I fail it will not be because I have overlooked any romantic adjuncts to successful wooing. I’ll be under your daughter’s window singing ‘Sweet Evilena,’ rigged out like a cavalier in a picture-book. I’m wishing I could borrow a feather for the hat.”

She laughed at the grotesque picture he suggested, but asked what he meant by the uniform, and laughed still more when he told her he was going to borrow one for the occasion from Kenneth, as Evilena had announced her scorn for all ununiformed men, and he did not mean to risk failure in a dress suit. Later he had an idea of applying for a uniform of his own as surgeon in the army.

“If you could introduce that into your serenade I have no fear my little girl would refuse you,” said Mrs. McVeigh, encouragingly, “at least not more than two or three times.”

On leaving Mrs. McVeigh he stumbled against Masterson, who was in the shadow just outside the window within which Monroe was in interested converse with Matthew Loring and some other residents of the county. He had been deliberately, and, in his own opinion, justifiably, a listener to every sentence advanced by the suspected Northerner, whom he felt was imposing on the hospitality of the South only to betray it.

Earnest as his convictions were he had not yet been able to discern the slightest trace of double intent in any of Monroe’s remarks, which were, for the most part, of agricultural affairs, foreign affairs, even the possible future of the Seminoles in the Florida swamp; of everything, in fact, but the 329 very vital question of the day surrounding them, which only tended to confirm his idea that the man was remarkably clever, and he despaired of securing sufficient evidence against him in the brief time at his disposal.

He had just arrived at that conclusion when Delaven, high-hearted with hope, saw only the stars over his head as he paced the veranda, and turning the corner stumbled on Masterson.

There was an exclamation, some words of apology, and involuntarily Masterson stepped backward into the stream of light from the open window, and Monroe, looking around, read the whole situation at a glance. Masterson still suspected him, and was listening! Monroe frankly laughed and made a little sound, the mere whisper of a whistle, as he met Masterson’s baffled look with one of cool mockery; it was nonchalant to the verge of insolence, and enraged the Southerner, strong in his convictions of right, as a blow could not have done. For a blow a man could strike back, but this mockery!

Delaven walked on, unconscious of the suppressed feeling between the two. Masterson was handicapped by the fact that he dared not again mention his suspicions to the McVeigh family, and he strode down the steps to the lawn, furious at the restraint put upon him, and conscious, now, that surveillance was useless, since the Northerner had been put upon his guard.

His impatience filled him with rage. He was honest, and he was a fighter, but of what use was that since he had blundered? He had dealt clumsy strokes with both hands, but the other had parried each thrust with a foil. He was worsted––the game was up, but he at least meant to let the interloper know that however clever he might be, there were some people, at least, whom he could not deceive.

That was the humor he was in when he saw Monroe excuse himself to Loring, step through the window, and light a cigar, preparatory to a stroll towards the tryst with Pluto.

Masterson watched him sauntering carelessly down the steps. He had removed the cigar and was whistling very softly, unconsciously, as one who is deep in some quandary, but to Masterson it seemed the acme of studious carelessness to ignore his own presence; it seemed insolent as the mocking glance through the window, and it decided him. His shoulders unconsciously squared as he stepped forward.

“Captain Monroe, I want a word with you,” and his tone was a challenge in itself. Monroe turned his head, slowly, finished the bar he was whistling in a slightly louder tone––loud enough to distinguish that it was “Rally ’Round the Flag,” whistled very badly. Monroe had evidently little music in his soul, however much patriotism he had in his heart.

“Only one, I hope,” he said, carelessly, with an irritating smile.

“You may have to listen to several before you get away from here!”

“From––you?” and there was perceptible doubt in the tone; it added to Masterson’s conviction of his own impotence. He dared not fight the man unless Monroe gave the challenge, though it was the one thing he wanted to do with all his heart.

“From those in authority over this section,” he said, sternly.

“Ah!––that is a different matter.”

“You may find it a very serious matter, Captain Monroe.”

“Oh, no; I shan’t find it, I’m not looking for it,” and Monroe softly resumed, “The Union Forever.”

“If you take my advice,” began Masterson, angrily, “you’ll”––but Monroe shook his head.

“I shan’t, so don’t mention it,” he said, blandly. Masterson’s wordy anger showed him that he was master of the situation, so he only smiled as he added, “advice, you know, is something everybody gives and nobody takes,” and Monroe resumed his whistle.

“You think yourself cursedly clever,” and it was an effort for Masterson to keep from striking the cool, insolent face. “You thought so today when Madame Caron was suspected instead of yourself.”

“Madame Caron!” Monroe ceased the whistle and looked at him with a momentary frown, which Masterson welcomed as a sign of anger.

“Ah, that touches you, does it?”

“Only with wonder that you dare speak of her after your failure to make her the victim of your spies today,” and Monroe’s tone was again only contemptuous. “First you arrest me, then accuse Madame Caron. Evidently you are out of your sphere in detective work; it really requires considerable cleverness, you know. Yet, if it amuses you––well”––he made a little gesture of indifference and turned away, but Masterson stepped before him.

“You will learn there is enough cleverness here to comprehend why you came to this plantation a willing prisoner,” he said, threateningly. Monroe resumed his “Rally Once Again,” and raised his brows inquiringly, “and also why you ignored a former acquaintance with Madame Caron and had to be introduced. Before you are through with this business, Captain Monroe, you’ll whistle a different tune.”

“Oh, no, I shan’t; I don’t know any other,” said Monroe, amiably, and sauntered away as some of the guests, with gay good nights, came down the steps. The evening, delightful 332 as it had been, fraught with emotion as it had been, was passing. The late hour reminded Monroe that he must no longer delay seeing Pluto if he was to see him at all. They had exchanged glances several times, but the black man’s duties had kept him occupied every minute, and they had found no opportunity to speak unobserved.

Judithe stood beside Mrs. McVeigh on the veranda exchanging good nights with some of the people, who expected to be her neighbors in the near future, and who were delighted with the prospect. She had been a decided success with the warm-hearted Southerners, and had entered the rooms a short time after her interview with her host, so gay, so bright, that he could scarcely believe those brilliant eyes were the ones he had seen tear-wet in the dusk. She had not avoided him, but she had made a tete-a-tete impossible; for all that he could only remember the moment when she had leaned upon his breast and confessed that the love was not all on his side; no after attempt at indifference could erase an iota of that!

Monroe stopped to look at her, himself unseen, and as she stood there smiling, gracious, the very star of the evening, he thought he had never before seen her so absolutely sparkling. He had always known her beautiful; tonight she was regal beyond comparison. Always in the years to follow he thought of her as she stood there that night, radiant, dominant, at the very pinnacle of success in all things. He never again saw her like that.

As he passed on he relit the cigar, forgotten during his meeting with Masterson, and Pluto, who had been on nettles of anxiety to get away from his duties all the evening, seized the opportunity when no one was looking, and followed closely the light of the cigar as it moved along the hedge past the dining room windows.

He carried the treasured bag holding the dead Rosa’s belongings.

“Couldn’t get away a mite sooner, not to save me, Mahsa Captain,” he said, breathlessly; “had to run now to get ’way from them niggahs in the kitchen, who wanted to know what I was toten. I had this here hid in the pantry whah I had no chance to look through it, so if you’ll s’cuse me I jest gwine dump em out right heah; the picture case, it’s plum down in the bottom; I felt it.”

Monroe smoked in silence while the darky was making the search. He no longer needed the picture in order to convince Madame Caron of the truth of Pluto’s story, yet concluded it best that she have possession of so compromising a portrait until her clever maid was out of the country.

He could hear Colonel McVeigh asking for Pluto, and Caroline offering information that “Pluto jest gone out through the pantry.”

“You’d better hurry, my man,” suggested Monroe, “they’ll be looking for you.”

“They will that––folks all gwine home, an’ need a sight o’ waiten’ on; thah’s the likeness, Mahs Captain;” he handed him a small oval frame, commenced crowding the other articles hurriedly back into the bag; “fo’ God’s sake, be careful o’ that; I don’ want it to fetch harm to that gal, but I don’ allow neither fo’ Madame Caron to be made trouble if I can help it.”

“You’re a faithful fellow; there’s a coin in exchange for the picture; you’d better go. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Pluto was profuse in his thanks, while Monroe hunted for a match with which to view the picture.

He struck a light and opened the little closed frame as Pluto started for the side door. An instant later he snapped 334 it shut again, and as the darky reached the steps Monroe’s hand was on his shoulder:

“Wait a bit,” he said, briefly. “You say that is the picture of Rhoda’s mother? Now tell me again what her name is.”

“Who?––Margeret? Why, her name Margeret Loring, I reckon, but Nelse did say her right name was ’Caris––Lacaris. Retta Lacaris what she called when she jest a young gal an’ Mahs Tom Loring fust bought her.”

Monroe repeated the name in order to impress it on his memory. He took a pencil and note book out of his pocket.

Pluto half offered his hand for the little oval frame, for there was enough light where they stood to see it by, but Monroe slipped it with the note book into an inner pocket. “The Colonel will want you; you had better go,” he said, turning away, and walking directly from the house he crossed the lawn out of sight and hearing of the departing guests. All the gay chatter jarred on him, oppressed as he was with the certainty of some unknown calamity overhanging those laughing people on the veranda. What it was he did not know, but he would leave in the morning.

He had been gone an hour. He was missed, but no one except Masterson took any special notice of it, and he was wary about asking questions, remembering Colonel McVeigh’s attitude in the morning over the disputed question. But as he was enjoying a final cigar with Judge Clarkson on the lawn––the Judge was the very last to leave and was waiting for his horse––all his suspicions were revived with added strength as McVeigh strode hurriedly across the veranda towards them.

“Phil, I was looking for you,” and his tone betrayed unusual anxiety reflected in his face as he glanced around to 335 see if there were possible listeners. But the rooms on the first floor were deserted––all dark but for a solitary light in the hall. In the upper rooms little gleams stole out from the sleeping rooms where the ladies had retired for the night.

“Anything wrong, Colonel?” asked Masterson, speaking in a suppressed tone and meeting him at the foot of the steps.

“Who is that with you, the Judge?” asked McVeigh first. “Good! I’m glad you are here. Something astounding has occurred, gentlemen. The papers, the instructions you brought today, together with some other documents of importance, have been stolen from my room tonight!”

“Ah-h!” Masterson’s voice was scarcely above a whisper. All his suspicions blazed again. Now he understood Monroe’s presence there.

“But, my dear boy,” gasped the Judge, thunderstruck at the news, “your commission stolen? Why, how––”

“The commission is the least important part of it,” answered McVeigh hopelessly. He was pacing back and forth in decided agitation. “The commission was forwarded me with instructions to take charge of the entire division during the temporary absence of the Major General commanding.”

“And you have lost those instructions?” demanded Masterson, who realized the serious consequences impending.

“Yes,” and McVeigh halted in his nervous walk, “I have lost those instructions. I have lost the entire plan of movement! It has been stolen from my room––is perhaps now in the hands of the enemy, and I ignorant of the contents! I had only glanced at them and meant to go over them thoroughly tonight. They are gone, and it means failure, court martial, disgrace!”

He had dropped hopelessly on the lower step, his face buried in his hands; the contrast to the joy, the absolute 336 happiness of an hour ago was overwhelming. Masterson stood looking at him, thinking fast, and wondering how much he dared express.

“When did you discover the loss, Colonel?”

“Just now,” he answered, rising and commencing again the nervous pacing. “I had gone to my room with Dr. Delaven to find an old uniform of mine he had asked to borrow. Then I found the drawer of my desk open and my papers gone. I said nothing to him of the loss. Any search to be made must be conducted without publicity.”

“Certainly, certainly,” agreed Judge Clarkson, “but a search, Kenneth, my boy? Where could we begin?”

McVeigh shook his head, but Masterson remembered that Delaven was also an outsider––and Delaven had borrowed a Confederate uniform!

“Colonel,” he asked, with a significance he tried ineffectually to subdue, for all subterfuge was difficult to his straightforward nature, “may I ask for what purpose that uniform was borrowed?”

The tone was unmistakable. McVeigh turned as if struck.

“Captain Masterson!”

“Colonel, this is no time to stand on ceremony. Some one who was your guest tonight evidently stole those papers! Most of the guests were old, tried friends, but there were exceptions. Two are foreigners, and one belongs to the enemy. It is most natural that the exceptions be considered first.” Clarkson nodded assent to this very logical deduction and Masterson felt assured of his support. “The borrowing of the uniform in itself is significant, but at this time is especially so.”

“No, no, no!” and his superior officer waved aside the question impatiently. “Dr. Delaven is above suspicion; he is about to offer his services as surgeon to our cause––talked 337 to me of it tonight. The uniform was for some jest with my sister. It has nothing whatever to do with this.”

“What became of the man you suspected as a spy this morning?” asked the Judge, and McVeigh also looked at Masterson for reply.

“No, it was not he,” said the latter, decidedly. “He was watched every minute of his stay here, and his stay was very brief. But Colonel McVeigh––Kenneth; even at the risk of your displeasure I must remind you that Dr. Delaven is not the only guest here who is either neutral or pledged to the cause of our enemies––I mean Captain Jack Monroe.”

“Impossible!” said McVeigh; but Masterson shook his head.

“If the name of every guest here tonight were mentioned you would feel justified in saying the same thing––impossible, yet it has been possible, since the papers are gone. Who but the Federals would want them? Captain Monroe of the Federal army allowed himself to be taken prisoner this morning and brought to your home, though he had a parole in his pocket! The careless reason he gave for it did not satisfy me, and now even you must agree that it looks suspicious.”

McVeigh glanced from one to the other in perplexity. He felt that the Judge agreed with Masterson; he was oppressed by the memory of the accusation against the sailor that morning. Spies and traitors at McVeigh Terrace! He had placed his orderly on guard in the room so soon as he discovered the rifled drawer, and had at once come to Masterson for consultation, but once there no solution of the problem suggested itself. There seemed literally no starting point for investigation. The crowd of people there had made the difficulty greater, for servants of the guests had also been there––drivers and boatmen. Yet who among them 338 could have access to the rooms of the family? He shook his head at Masterson’s suggestion.

“Your suspicions against Captain Monroe are without foundation,” he said decidedly. “The papers had not yet reached me when he arrived. He had no knowledge of their existence.”

“How do we know that?” demanded Masterson. “Do you forget that he was present when I gave you the papers?”

McVeigh stopped short and stared at him. By the thin edge of the wedge of suspicion a door seemed forced back and a flood of revelations forced in.

“By Jove!” he said, slowly, “and he heard me speak of the importance of my instructions!”

“Where is he now?” asked the Judge. “I have not seen him for an hour; but there seems only one thing to be done.”

“Certainly,” agreed Masterson, delighted that McVeigh at last began to look with reason on his own convictions. “He should be arrested at once.”

“We must not be hasty in this matter, it is so important,” said McVeigh. “Phil, I will ask you to see that a couple of horses are saddled. Have your men do it without arousing the servants’ suspicions. I am going to my room for a more thorough investigation. Come with me, Judge, if you please. I am glad you remained. I don’t want any of the others to know what occurred. I can’t believe it of Monroe––yet.”

“Kenneth, my boy, I don’t like to crush any lingering faith you have in your Northern friend,” said Clarkson, laying his hand affectionately on McVeigh’s arm as they reached the steps, “but from the evidence before us I––I’m afraid he’s gone! He’ll never come back!”

At that moment a low, lazy sort of whistle sounded across 339 the lawn, so low and so slow that it was apparently an unconscious accompaniment to reverie or speculation. It was quite dark except where the light shone from the hall. All the gaudy paper lanterns had been extinguished, and when the confidential notes of “Rally ’round the flag, boys,” came closer, and the whistler emerged from the deeper shadows, he could only distinguish two figures at the foot of the steps, and they could only locate him by the glow of his cigar in the darkness.

There was a moment’s pause and then the whistler said, “Hello! Friends or foes?”

“Captain Jack!” said McVeigh, with a note of relief in his voice, very perceptible to the Judge, who felt a mingling of delight and surprise at his failure as a prophet.

“Oh, it’s you, is it, Colonel?” and Monroe came leisurely forward. “I fancied every one but myself had gone to bed when I saw the lights out. I walked away across your fields, smoking.”

The others did not speak. They could not at once throw aside the constraint imposed by the situation. He felt it as he neared the steps, but remarked carelessly:

“Cloudy, isn’t it? I am not much of a weather prophet, but feel as if there is a storm in the air.”

“Yes,” agreed McVeigh, with an abstracted manner. He was not thinking of the probable storm, but of what action he had best take in the matter, whether to have the suspected man secretly watched, or to make a plain statement of the case, and show that the circumstantial evidence against him was too decided to be ignored.

“Well, Colonel, you’ve helped me to a delightful evening,” continued the unsuspecting suspect. “I shall carry away most pleasant memories of your plantation hospitality, and have concluded to start with them in the morning.” There 340 was a slight pause, then he added: “Sorry I can’t stay another day, but I’ve been thinking it over, and it seems necessary for me to move on to the coast.”

“Not going to run from the enemy?” asked Clarkson, with a doubtful attempt at lightness.

“Not necessary, Judge; so I shall retreat in good order.” He ascended the steps, yawning slightly. “You two going to stay up all night?”

“No,” said McVeigh, “I’ve just been persuading Judge Clarkson to remain; we’ll be in presently.”

“Well, I’ll see you in the morning, gentlemen. Good night.”

They exchanged good nights, and he entered the house, still with that soft whisper of a whistle as accompaniment. It grew softer as he entered the house, and the two stood there until the last sound had died away.

“Going in the morning, Kenneth,” said the Judge, meaningly. “Now, what do you think?”

“That Masterson is right,” answered McVeigh. “He is the last man I should have suspected, but there seems nothing to do except make the arrest at once, or put him secretly under surveillance without his knowledge. I incline to the latter, but will consult with Masterson. Come in.”

They entered the hall, where McVeigh shut the door and turned the light low as they passed through. Pluto was nodding half asleep in the back hall, and his master told him to go to bed, he would not be needed. Though he had formed no definite plan of action he felt that the servants had best be kept ignorant of all movements for the present. Somebody’s servants might have helped with that theft, why not his own?

In the upper hall he passed Margeret, who was entering 341 the room of Miss Loring with a pitcher of water. The hall was dark as they passed the corridor leading to the rooms of Madame Caron, Evilena, Miss Loring and Captain Monroe. Light showed above the doors of Miss Loring and Monroe. The other rooms were already dark.

The two men paused long enough to note those details, then McVeigh walked to the end of the corridor and bolted the door to the balcony. Monroe was still softly whistling at intervals. He would cease occasionally and then, after a few moments, would commence again where he had left off. He was evidently very busy or very much preoccupied. To leave his room and descend the stairs he would have to pass McVeigh’s room, which was on the first landing. The orderly was on guard there, within. McVeigh sent him with a message to Masterson, who was in the rear of the building. The man passed out along the back corridor and the other two entered the room, but left the door ajar.

In the meantime a man who had been watching Monroe’s movements in the park for some time now crept closer to the house. He watched him enter the house and the other two follow. He could not hear what they said, but the closing of the door told him the house was closed for the night. The wind was rising and low clouds were scurrying past. Now and then the stars were allowed to peep through, showing a faint light, and any one close to him would have seen that he wore a Confederate uniform and that his gaze was concentrated on the upper balcony. At last he fancied he could distinguish a white figure against the glass door opening from the corridor. Assuring himself of the fact he stepped forward into the open and was about to cross the little space before the house when he was conscious of another figure, also in gray uniform, and the unmistakable 342 cavalry hat, coming stealthily from the other side of the house.

The second figure also glanced upwards at the balcony, but was too close to perceive the slender form above moving against one of the vine-covered pillars when the figure draped in white bent over as though trying to decipher the features under the big hat, and just as the second comer made a smothered attempt to clear his throat, something white fell at his feet.

“Sweet Evilena!” he said, picking it up. “Faith, the mother has told her and the darling was waiting for me. Delaven’s private post office!” He laid down the guitar and fumbled for a match, when the watcher from the shadows leaped upon him from behind, throttling him that no sound be made, and while he pinned him to the ground with his knee, kept one hand on his throat and with the other tried to loosen the grasp of Delaven’s hand on the papers.

“Give me that paper!” he whispered fiercely. “Give it to me or I’ll kill you where you lay! Give it to me!”

In the struggle Delaven struck the guitar with the heel of his boot, there was a crash of resonant wood, and a wail of the strings, and it reached the ears of Masterson and the orderly, who were about to enter the side door from the arbor.

Masterson halted to listen whence the crash came, but the orderly’s ears were more accurate and he dashed towards the corner.

“Captain,” he called in a loud whisper, as he saw the struggling figures, and at the call and the sound of quick steps Pierson leaped to his feet and ran for the shrubbery.

“Halt!” called Masterson, and fired one shot from his revolver. The fugitive leaped to one side as the order rang out and the bullet went whistling past. He had cleared the 343 open space and was in the shrubbery. The orderly dashed after him as Masterson caught Delaven, who was scrambling to his feet, feeling his throat and trying to take a full breath.

“Who are you?” demanded Masterson, shaking him a trifle to hasten the smothered speech. “Doctor Delaven! You! Who was that man?”

“It’s little I can tell you,” gasped the other, “except that he’s some murderous rival who wanted to make an angel of me. Man, but he has a grip!”

Margeret suddenly appeared on the veranda with a lamp held high above her head, as she peered downward in the darkness, and by its light Masterson scanned the appearance of Delaven with a doubtful eye.

“Why did the man assault you?” he demanded, and Delaven showed the long envelope.

“He was trying to rob me of a letter let fall from the balcony above, bad luck to him!”

At that moment the orderly came running back to say that the man had got away; a horse had been tied over in the pines, they could hear the beat of its hoofs now on the big road.

“Get a horse and follow him,” ordered Masterson briefly, as McVeigh and Clarkson came down the stairs and past Margeret. “Arrest him, shoot him, fetch him back some way!” Then he turned again to the would-be cavalier of romance, who was surveying the guitar disconsolately.

“Doctor Delaven, what are you doing in that uniform?”

“I was about to give a concert,” returned that individual, who made a grotesque figure in the borrowed suit, a world too large for him.

McVeigh laughed as he heard the reply and surveyed the speaker. Masterson’s persistent search for spies had evidently spoiled Delaven’s serenade.

Mrs. McVeigh opened a window and asked what the trouble was, and Masterson assured her it was only an accident––his revolver had gone off, but no one was hurt, on which assurance she said good night and closed the window, while the group stood looking at each other questioningly. Masterson’s manner showed that it was something more than an accident.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked McVeigh in a guarded tone; and Masterson pointed to the package in Delaven’s hand.

“I think we’ve found it, Colonel,” he said, excitedly. “Doctor Delaven, what is in that envelope?”

“Faith, I don’t know, Captain. The fellow didn’t give me time to read it.”

“Give it to me.”

“No, I’ll not,” returned Delaven, moving towards the light.

“And why not?” demanded Masterson, suspiciously.

“Because it’s from a lady, and it’s private.”

He held the envelope to the light, but there was no name or address on it. He tore off the end and in extracting the contents two papers slipped out and fell on the ground. Masterson picked them up and after a glance waved them triumphantly, while Delaven looked puzzled over the slip in his hands. It was only something about military matters,––the furthest thing possible from a billet-doux.

“I thought myself it was the weightiest one ever launched by Cupid,” he remarked as he shook his head over the mystery. But Masterson thrust the papers into McVeigh’s hands.

“Your commission and instructions, Colonel!” he said, jubilantly. “What a run of luck. See if they are all right.”

“Every one of them,” and in a moment the Judge and 345 Masterson were shaking hands with him, while Delaven stood apart and stared. He was glad they were having so much joy to themselves, but could not see why he should be choked to obtain it for them.

“Understand one thing,” said Masterson, when the congratulations were over; “those papers were thrown from that balcony to Dr. Delaven by mistake. The man they were meant for tried to strangle the doctor and has escaped, but the man who escaped, Colonel, was evidently only a messenger, and the real culprit, the traitor, is in your house now, and reached the balcony through that corridor door!”

The wind blew Margeret’s lamp out, leaving them, for an instant, in darkness, but she entered the hall, turned up the light there so that it shone across the veranda and down the steps; then she lit the lamp in the library and went softly up the stairs and out of sight.

“Come into the library,” suggested McVeigh. “You are right, Phil, there is only one thing to be done in the face of such evidence By Jove! It seems incredible. I would have fought for Jack Monroe, sworn by him, and after all––”

A leisurely step sounded on the stairs and Monroe descended. He wore no coat or vest and was evidently prepared for bed when disturbed.

“What’s all the row about?” he asked, yawning. “Oh, are you in it, Colonel?”

There was a slight pause before McVeigh said:

“Captain Monroe, the row is over for the present, since your confederate has escaped.”

“My––confederate?”

He glanced in inquiry from one to the other, but could see no friendliness in their faces. Delaven looked as puzzled as himself, but the other three regarded him coldly. He 346 tossed his half finished cigar out of the door, and seemed to grow taller, as he turned toward them again.

“May I ask in what way I am linked with a confederacy.”

“In using your parole to gain knowledge of our army for the use of the Federal government,” answered McVeigh, bluntly.

Monroe made a step forward, but halted, drew a long breath, and thrust his uninjured hand into his pocket, as if to hamper its aggressive tendencies.

“Is it considered a part of Southern hospitality that the host reserves the right to insult his guests?” he asked slowly. Masterson’s face flushed with anger at the sweeping suggestion, but McVeigh glanced at him warningly.

“This is not a time for useless words, Captain Monroe, and it seems useless to discuss the rights of the hospitality you have outraged.”

“That is not true, Colonel McVeigh,” and his tones were very steady as he made the denial. His very steadiness and cool selfcontrol angered McVeigh, who had hoped to see him astonished, indignant, natural.

“Not true?” he demanded. “Is it not true that you were received here as a friend, welcomed as a brother? That you listened this morning when those military dispatches reached me? That you heard me say they were very important? That as soon as they were stolen from my room tonight you announced that you could not prolong your stay, your object in coming having evidently been accomplished? Is it not true that today you managed to divert suspicion from yourself to an innocent lady? The authorities were evidently right who had that sailor followed here; but unknown to her it was not his employer he came here to meet, but you, his confederate! He was only the messenger, while you 347 were the real spy––the officer who has broken his parole of honor.”

Monroe had listened with set teeth to the accusation, a certain doggedness in his expression as the list of his delinquencies were reviewed, but at the final sentence the clenched hand shot forward and he struck McVeigh a wicked blow, staggering him back against the wall.

“You are a liar and a fool, Colonel McVeigh,” he said in a choked voice, his face white with anger.

The Judge and Masterson interposed as McVeigh lunged forward at him, and then he controlled his voice enough to say, “Captain Monroe, you are under arrest.”

And the commotion and deep breathing of the men prevented them hearing the soft rustle of a woman’s dress in the hall as Judithe slipped away into the darkness of the sitting room, and thence up the back stairs.

She had followed Monroe as he passed her door. She heard all their words, and the final ones: “Captain Monroe, you are under arrest!” rang in her ears all night as she tossed sleepless in the darkness. That is what Kenneth McVeigh would say to her if he knew the truth. Well, he should know it. Captain Monroe was sacrificing himself for her. How she admired him! Did he fancy she would allow it? Yet that shot alarmed her. She heard them say Pierson had escaped, but had he retained the papers? If she was quite sure of that she would announce the truth at once and clear him. But the morning was so near. She must wait a few hours longer, and then––then Kenneth McVeigh would say to her, “You are under arrest,” and after all her success would come defeat.

She had never yet met defeat, and it was not pleasant to contemplate. She remembered his words of love––the adoration in his eye; would that love protect her when he learned 348 she was the traitor to his home and country? She smiled bitterly at the thought, and felt that she could see clearly how that would end. He would be patriot first and lover after, unless it was some one of his own family––some one whose honor meant his honor––some one––

Then in the darkness she laughed at a sudden remembrance, and rising from the couch paced feverishly the length of the room many times, and stood gazing out at the stars swept by fleecy clouds.

Out there on the lawn he had vowed his love for her, asked her to marry him––marry him at once, before he left to join his brigade. She had not the slightest idea of doing it then; but now, why not? It could be entirely secret––so he had said. It would merely be a betrothal with witnesses, and it would make her so much a part of the McVeigh family that he must let Captain Jack go on her word. And before the dawn broke she had decided her plan of action. If he said, “You are under arrest” to her, it should be to his own wife!

She plunged into the idea with the reckless daring of a gamester who throws down his last card to win or lose. It had to be played any way, so why not double the stakes? She had played on that principle in some of the most fashionable gaming places of Europe in search of cure for the ennui she complained of to Captain Jack; so why not in this more vital game of living pawns?

She had wept in the dark of the garden when his lips had touched her; she had said, wild, impulsive things; she had been a fool; but in the light of the new day she set her teeth and determined the folly was over––only one day remained. Military justice––or injustice––moved swiftly, and there was a man’s life to be saved.