All of pleading was in his voice and eyes. Moved by some sudden impulse not entirely guileless, she looked full at him and let her hand remain in his.

"Well, since you really cannot," she murmured.

"Judithe! You mean it?" and in an instant both his hands were clasping hers. "You are not coquetting with me this time? Judithe!"

She attempted to draw her hand away, but he bent his head, and kissed the warm palm. Margeret who was lighting an extinguished lantern, saw the caress and heard the low, deep tones. She turned and retraced her steps instead of passing them.

"Do you realize that all who run may read the subject of your discourse?" she asked, raising her brows and glancing after the retreating woman.

"Let them, the sooner they hear it the better I shall be pleased; come, let us tell my mother; I want to be sure of you this time, my beautiful Judithe. What time more fitting than this for the announcement—come!"

"What is it you would tell her?" she asked, looking straight ahead of her into the shadows on the lawn. Her voice sounded less musical than it had a moment before. Her eyes avoided his, and for one unguarded instant the full sculpturesque lips were tense and rigid.

"What is it?" he repeated, "why, that I adore you! that you have been the one woman in the world to me ever since I met you first; that I want you for my wife, and that you—confess it again in words, Judithe—that you love me."

She shook her head slowly, but accompanied that half denial with a bewildering smile.

"Entirely too much to announce in one evening," she decided; "do you forget they have had other plans for you? We must give your family more time to grow accustomed to me and to—your wishes."

"Our wishes," he said, correctively, and she dropped her eyes and bent her head in assent. She was adorable in the final surrender. He murmured endearing, caressing words to her, and the warm color merged across her face, and receding, left her a trifle pale. All her indifference had been a pretense—he knew it now, and it strengthened his protests against delay. He drew her away from the steps as the dance ended, and the people came chattering and laughing out from the brilliantly lit rooms.

"You talk of haste, but forget that I have waited three years, Judithe; remember that, won't you? Put that three years to my credit; consider that I wooed you every day of every year, and I would if I had been given the chance! You talk of time as if there were oceans of it for us, and you forget that I have but one more day to be with you—one day; and then separation, uncertainty. I can't leave you like that, now that I know you care for me—I won't."

"Oh—h!" and she met his look with a little quizzical smile. "You mean to resign your commission for the sake of my society? But I am not sure I should admire you so much then. I am barbarian enough to like a fighter."

"I should fight all the better for knowing it was a wife I was leaving behind instead of a sweetheart, Judithe; marry me tomorrow!"

She made a little gesture of protest, but he clasped her hand in his and held it close to prevent her from repeating it. "Why not?" he continued. "No one need know unless you wish; it can be kept secret as the engagement would be. Then, wherever the fortunes of war may send me, I can carry with me the certainty of your love. Speak to me, Judithe! Say yes. I have waited three years; I want my wife!"

"Your wife! Your—oh!"—and she flung out her hands as though putting the thought away from her. A tear fell on his hand—she was weeping.

"Judithe, sweetheart!" he murmured, remorsefully.

"Tomorrow—not tonight," she half whispered. "I must think, so much is to be considered."

"No! Only one thing is to be considered;" he held her hands and looked in her face, with eyes ardent, compelling; "Only one thing, Judithe, and that is, do you love me—now?"

"Now, and from the first day we ever met," she answered, looking up at him; her eyes were like stars glimmering through the mist of late tears. There came to them both the remembrance of that other avowal, behind those plunging horses in the Paris boulevard. They had unconsciously repeated the words uttered then.

For an instant his arms were about her—such strong, masterful, compelling arms. A wild temptation came to her to remain in that shelter—to let all the world go by with its creeds, its plots, its wars of right and wrong—to live for love, love only, love with him.

"My queen!" he whispered, as her head bent in half avoidance of his caresses even while her hand clasped his closely, convulsively, "it has all been of no use; those three years when you kept me away. It is fate that we find each other again. I shall never let you go from me—never! Do you hear me, Judithe? You are so silent; but words matter little since you belong to me. Do you realize it?—that you must belong to me always!"

The words over which he lingered, words holding all of hope and happiness to him brought to her a swift revulsion of feeling. She remembered those other human creatures who belonged to him—she remembered—

A moment later and he stood alone in the sweet dusk of the night. She had fairly run from him along the little arbor to the side door, where she vanished unseen by the others. How she was for all her queenly ways! What a creature of moods, and passions, and emotions! The hand on which her tear had fallen he touched to his cheek. Why had she wept at his confession of love for her? She had not wept when the same words were spoken on that never-to-be-forgotten day in Paris!



CHAPTER XXVII.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

The sun was just peeping, fiery red and threatening, above the bank of clouds to the east when Delaven was roused from sweet sleep by the apparition of Colonel McVeigh, booted, spurred and ready for the saddle.

"I want you to come riding with me, and to come quick," he said, with a face singularly bright and happy, considering the episode of the night before, and the fact that his former friend was now a prisoner in a cottage back of the dwelling house, guarded by the orderlies.

He had dispatched a courier for a detachment of men from one of the fortifications along the river. He would send Monroe in their charge to Charleston with a full statement of the case before he left to join his brigade—and ere that time:—

Close to his heart lay the little note Pluto had brought him less than an hour before, the second written word he had ever received from Judithe. The first had sent him away from her—but this!

So Delaven dressed himself quickly, ate the impromptu breakfast arranged by the Colonel's order, and joined Judithe at the steps as the horses were brought around.

She was gracious and gay as usual, and replied to his gallant remarks with her usual self-possession, yet he fancied her a trifle nervous, as was to be expected, and that she avoided his gaze, looking over him, past him, every place but in his eyes, at which he did not wonder especially. Of all the women he had known she was the last to associate with a hurried clandestine marriage. Of course it was all explained by the troublous war times, and the few brief hours, and above all by the love he had always fancied those two felt for each other.

They had a five mile ride to the country home of a disabled chaplain who had belonged to McVeigh's regiment—had known him from boyhood, and was home now nursing a shattered arm, and was too well used to these hurried unions of war times to wonder much at the Colonel's request, and only slightly puzzled at the added one of secrecy.

At the Terrace no one was surprised at the early ride of the three, even though the morning was not a bright one. Madame Caron had made them accustomed to those jaunts in the dawn, and Mrs. McVeigh was relieved to learn that Kenneth had accompanied her. Shocked as she was to hear of Monroe's arrest, and the cause of it, she was comforted somewhat that Kenneth did not find the affair serious enough to interfere with a trifle of attention to her guest.

In fact the Colonel had not, in the note hastily scribbled to his mother, given her anything like a serious account of the case. Captain Monroe had for certain military reasons been placed under guard until an escort could arrive and accompany him to Charleston for some special investigations. She was not to be disturbed or alarmed because of it; only, no one was to be allowed to see or speak with him without a special permit. He would explain more fully on his return, and only left the note to explain why Captain Monroe would breakfast alone.

Matthew Loring also breakfasted alone. He was in a most excitable state over the occurrence of the night before, which Judge Clarkson was called on to relate, and concerning which he made all the reservations possible, all of them entirely acceptable to his listeners with the exception of Miss Loring, who heard, and then sent for Phil Masterson.

She was talking with him on the lawn when the three riders returned, and when Kenneth McVeigh bent above Judithe with some laughing words as he led her up the steps, the heart of his girl-playmate grew sick within her. She had feared and dreaded this foreign exquisite from the first; now, she knew why.

Evilena was also watching for their return and gave Delaven a cool little nod in contrast to the warm greeting given her brother and Madame Caron. But instead of being chilled he only watched his opportunity to whisper:

"I wore the uniform!"

She tossed her head and found something interesting in the view on the opposite side of the lawn. He waited meekly, plucked some roses, which he presented in silence and she regarded with scorn. But as she did not move away more than two feet he took heart of grace and repeated:

"I wore the uniform!"

"Yes," she said, with fine scorn, "wore it in our garden, where you were safe!"

"Arrah! Was I now?" he asked in his best brogue. "Well, it's myself thought I was anything but safe for a few minutes. But I saved the papers, and your brother was good enough to say I'd saved his honor."

"You!"

"Just me, and no other," he affirmed. "Didn't I hold on to those instructions while that Yankee spy was trying to send me to—heaven? And if that was not helping the cause and risking my life, well now, what would you call it?"

"Oh!" gasped Evilena, delightedly, "I never thought of that. Why, you were a real hero after all. I'm so glad, I—"

Then realizing that her exuberance was little short of caressing, and that she actually had both hands on his arm, she drew back and added demurely that she would always keep those roses, and she would like to keep the guitar, too, just as it was, for her mama agreed that it was a real romance of a serenade—the serenade that was not sung.

After which, he assured her, the serenades under her window should not always be silent ones, and they went in search of the broken guitar.

Judge Clarkson was pacing the veranda with well concealed impatience. Colonel McVeigh's ride had interfered with the business talk he had planned. Matthew Loring was decidedly irritable over it, and he, Clarkson, was the one who, with Gertrude, had to hear the complaints. But looking in Kenneth's happy face he could not begrudge him those brief morning hours at Beauty's side, and only asked his consideration for the papers at the earliest convenient moment, and at the same time asked if the cottage was really a safe place for so important a prisoner as Monroe.

"Perfectly safe," decided McVeigh, "so safe that there is no danger of escape; and as I think over the whole affair I doubt if on trial anything in this world can save him."

"Well, I should hate to take his chances in the next," declared the Judge; "it seems so incredible that a man possessed of the courage, the admirable attributes you have always ascribed to him, should prove so unworthy—a broken parole. Why, sir, it is—is damnable, sir, damnable!"

Colonel McVeigh agreed, and Clarkson left the room without perceiving that Madame Caron had been a listener, but she came in, removing her gloves and looking at the tiny band of gold on her third finger.

"The Judge referred to Captain Monroe, did he not?" she asked, glancing up at him. "Kenneth"—and her manner was delightfully appealing as she spoke his name in a shy little whisper, "Kenneth, there may be some horrible mistake. Your friend—that was—may be innocent."

"Scarcely a chance of it, sweetheart," and he removed her other glove and kissed her fingers, glancing around first, to see that no one was in sight.

She laughed at his little picture of nervousness, but returned to the subject.

"But if it were so?" she persisted; "surely you will not counsel haste in deciding so serious a matter?"

"At any rate, I mean to put aside so serious a subject of conversation on our wedding morning," he answered, and she smiled back at him as she said:

"On our wedding morning, sir, you should be mercifully disposed towards all men."

"We never class traitors as men," and his fine face grew stern for an instant, "they are vampires, birds of prey. A detail has been sent for to take him to court-martial; there is little doubt what the result will be, and—"

"Suppose," and she glanced up at him with a pretty appeal in her eyes, "that your wife, sir, should ask as a first favor on her wedding day that you be merciful, as the rules of war allow you to be, to this poor fellow who danced with us last night? Even supposing he is most horribly wicked, yet he really did dance with us—danced very well, and was very amusing. So, why not grant him another day of grace? No?" as he shook his head. "Well, Monsieur, I have a fancy ill luck must come if you celebrate our wedding day by hastening a man to meet his death. Let him remain here under guard until tomorrow?"

He shook his head, smilingly.

"No, Judithe."

"Not even for me?"

"Anything else, sweetheart, but not that. It is really out of my power to delay, now, even if I wished. The guard will come for him some time this evening. I, myself, shall leave at dawn tomorrow; so, you see!—"

She glanced at him in playful reproach, a gay irresponsible specimen of femininity, who would ignore a man's treason because he chanced to be a charming partner in the dance.

"My very first request! So, Monsieur, this is how you mean to love, honor and obey me?"

He laughed and caught the uplifted forefinger with which she admonished him.

"I shall be madly jealous in another minute," he declared, with mock ferocity; "you have been my wife two full hours and half of that precious time you have wasted pleading the cause of a possible rival, for he actually did look at you with more than a passing admiration, Judithe, it was a case of witchery at first sight; but for all that I refuse to allow him to be a skeleton at our feast this morning. There comes Phil Masterson for me, I must go; but remember, this is not a day for considerations of wars and retribution; it is a day for love."

"I shall remember," she said, quietly, and walked to the window looking out on the swaying limbs of the great trees; they were being swept by gusts of wind, driving threatening clouds from which the trio had ridden in haste lest a rain storm be back of their shadows. The storm Monroe had prophesied the night before had delayed and grumbled on the way, but it was coming for all that, and she welcomed the coming. A storm would probably delay that guard for which McVeigh had sent, and even the delay of a few hours might mean safety for Captain Monroe; otherwise, she—

She had learned all about the adventures of the papers, and had made her plans. Some time during that day or evening there would be a raid made on the Terrace by Federals in Confederate uniform. They would probably be thought by the inmates a party of daring foragers, and would visit the smoke houses, and confiscate the contents of the pantry. Incidentally they would carry Colonel McVeigh and Captain Masterson back to the coast as prisoners, if the required papers were not found, otherwise nothing of person or property would be molested by them; and they would, of course, free Captain Monroe, but force him, also, to go with them until within Federal lines and safety.

She had planned it all out, and knew it would not be difficult. The coast was not far away, a group of men in Confederate uniform could ride across the country to the Salkahatchie, at that point, unobserved. The fortifications on the river had men coming and going, though not thoroughly manned, and just now the upper one had no men stationed there, which accounted for the fact that Colonel McVeigh had to send farther for extra men. He could not spare his own orderlies, and Masterson's had not yet returned from following Pierson. Unless the raiders should meet with a detachment of bona-fide Confederates there was not one chance in fifty of them being suspected if they came by the back roads she had mapped out and suggested; and if they reached the Terrace before the Confederate guard, Monroe would be freed.

She had not known there was that hope when she wrote the note consenting to the marriage. She heard they had sent down to the fort for some men and supposed it was the first fort on the river—merely an hour's ride away. It was not until they were in the saddle that she learned it would be an all day's journey to the fort and back, and that the colored carrier had just started.

She knew that if it were a possible thing some message would be sent to her by the Federals as to the hour she might expect them, but if it were not possible—well—

She chafed under the uncertainty, and watched the storm approaching over the far level lands of the east. Blue black clouds rolled now where the sun had shot brief red glances on rising. Somewhere there under those heavy shadows the men she waited for were riding to her through the pine woods and over the swamp lands; if she had been a praying woman she would have prayed that they ride faster—no music so longed for as the jingle of their accoutrements!

She avoided the rest and retired to her own room on the plea of fatigue. Colonel McVeigh was engaged with his mother and Judge Clarkson on some affairs of the plantation, so very much had to be crowded into his few hours at home. Money had to be raised, property had to be sold, and the salable properties were growing so few in those days.

Masterson was waiting impatiently for the Colonel, whom he had only seen for the most brief exchange of words that morning. It was now noon. He had important news to communicate before that guard arrived for Monroe; it might entail surprising disclosures, and the minutes seemed like hours to him, while Judge Clarkson leisurely presented one paper after another for Kenneth's perusal and signature, and Mrs. McVeigh listened and asked advice.

Judithe descended the stairs, radiant in a gown of fluffy yellow stuff, with girdle of old topaz and a fillet of the same in quaint dull settings. The storm had grown terrific—the heavy clouds trailing to the earth and the lightning flashes lit up dusky corners. Evilena had proposed darkening the windows entirely, lighting the lamps to dispel the gloom, and dressing in their prettiest to drive away forgetfulness of the tragedy of the elements; it was Kenneth's last day at home; they must be gay though the heavens fell.

Thus it was that the sitting room and dining room presented the unusual mid-day spectacle of jewels glittering in the lamplight, for Gertrude also humored Evilena's whim to the extent of a dainty dress of softest sky blue silk, half covered with the finest work of delicate lace; she wore a pretty brooch and bracelet of turquoise, and was a charming picture of blonde beauty, a veritable white lily of a woman. Dr. Delaven, noting the well-bred grace, the gentle, unassuming air so truly refined and patrician, figuratively took off his hat to the Colonel, who, between two such alluring examples of femininity, two women of such widely different types as the Parisian and the Carolinian, had even been able to make a choice. For he could see what every one but Kenneth could see plainly, that while Miss Loring was gracious and interested in her other men friends, he remained, as ever, her one hero, apart from, and above all others, and if Judithe de Caron had not appeared upon the scene—

Gertrude looked even lovelier than she had the night before at the party. Her cheeks had a color unusual, and her eyes were bright with hope, expectation, or some unspoken cause for happiness; it sounded in the tones of her voice and shone in the happy curves of her lips as she smiled.

"Look at yourself in the glass, Gertrude," said Evilena, dragging her to the long mirror in the sitting room, "you are always lovely, dear, but today you are entrancingly beautiful."

"Today I am entrancingly happy," returned Miss Loring, looking in the mirror, but seeing in it not herself, but Judithe, who was crossing the hall, and who looked like a Spanish picture in her gleam of yellow tissues and topazes.

"Wasn't it clever of me to think of lighting the lamps?" asked Evilena in frank self-laudation, "just listen how that rain beats; and did you see the hail? Well, it fell, lots of it, while we were dressing; that's what makes the air so cool. I hope it will storm all the rain down at once and then give us a clear day tomorrow, when Kenneth has to go away."

"It would be awful for any one to be out in a storm like this," remarked the other as the crash of thunder shook the house; "what about Captain Monroe having to go through it?"

"Caroline said the guard has just got here, so I suppose he will have to go no matter what the weather is. Well, I suppose he'd just as soon be killed by the storm as to be shot for a spy. Only think of it—a guest of ours to be taken away as a spy!"

"It is dreadful," assented Gertrude, and then looking at Judithe, she added, "I hope you were not made nervous by the shot and excitement last night; I assure you we do not usually have such finales to our parties."

"I am not naturally timid, thank you," returned Judithe, with a careless smile, all the more careless that she felt the blue eyes were regarding her with unusual watchfulness; "one must expect all those inconveniences in war times, especially when people are located on the border land, and I hear it is really but a short ride to the coast, where your enemies have their war vessels for blockade. Did I understand you to say the military men have come for your friend, the Federal Captain? What a pity! He danced so well!"

And with the careless smile still on her lips, she passed them and crossed the hall to the library.

Evilena shook her head and sighed. "I am just broken hearted over his arrest," she acknowledged, "but it is because—well, it is not merely because he was a good dancer! Gertrude, I—I did something horrid this morning, I just could not eat my breakfast without showing my sympathy in some way. You know those last cookies I baked? Well, I had some of those sent over with his breakfast."

"Poor fellow!" and Delaven shook his head sadly over the fate of Monroe. Evilena eyed him suspiciously; but his face was all innocence and sympathy.

"It is terrible," she assented; "poor mama just wept this morning when we heard of it; of course, if he really proves to be a spy, we should not care what happened to him; but mama thinks of his mother, and of his dead brother, and—well, we both prayed for him this morning; it was all we could do. Kenneth says no one must go near him, and of course Kenneth knows what is best; but we are both hoping with all our hearts that he had nothing to do with that spy; funny, isn't it, that we are praying and crying on account of a man who, after all, is a real Yankee?"

"Faith, I'd turn Yankee myself for the same sweet sympathy," declared Delaven, and received only a reproachful glance for his frivolity.

Judithe crossed the hall to the library, the indifferent smile still on her lips, her movements graceful and unhurried; under the curious eyes of Gertrude Loring she would show no special interest in the man under discussion, or the guard just arrived, but for all that the arrival of the guard determined her course. All her courage was needed to face the inevitable; the inevitable had arrived, and she was not a coward.

She looked at the wedding ring on her finger; it had been the wedding ring of the dowager long ago, and she had given it to Kenneth McVeigh that morning for the ceremony.

"Maman would approve if she knew all," she assured herself, and now she touched the ring to remind her of many things, and to blot out the remembrance of others, for instance, the avowal of love under the arbor in the dusk of the night before!

"But that was last night," she thought, grimly; "the darkness made me impressionable, the situation made of me a nervous fool, who said the thing she felt and had no right to feel. It is no longer night, and I am no longer a fool! Do not let me forget, little ring, why I allowed you to be placed there. I am going to tell him now, and I shall need you and—Maman."

So she passed into the library; there could be no further delay, since the guard had arrived; Monroe should not be sacrificed.

She closed the door after her and looked around. A man was in the large arm chair by the table, but it was not Colonel McVeigh. It was Matthew Loring, whose man Ben was closing a refractory banging shutter, and drawing curtains over the windows, while Pluto brought in a lighted lamp for the table, and both of them listened stoically to Loring's grumbling.

For a wonder he approved of the innovation of lamps and closed shutters. He had, in fact, come from his own room because of the fury of the storm. He growled that the noise of it annoyed him, but would not have acknowledged the truth, that the force of it appalled him, and that he shrank from being alone while the lightning threw threats in every direction, and the crashes of thunder shook the house.

"No, Kenneth isn't here," he answered, grumpily. "They told me he was, but the nigger lied."

"Mahsa Kenneth jest gone up to his own room, Madame Caron," said Pluto, quietly. "Mist'ess, she went, too, an' Judge Clarkson."

"Humph! Clarkson has got him pinned down at last, has he?" and there was a note of satisfaction in his tone. "I was beginning to think that between this fracas with the spy, and his galloping around the country, he would have no time left for business. I should not think you'd consider it worth while to go pleasure-riding such a morning as this."

"Oh, yes; it was quite worth while," she answered, serenely; "the storm did not break until our return. You are waiting for Colonel McVeigh? So am I, and in the meantime I am at your service, willing to be entertained."

"I am too much upset to entertain any one today," he declared, fretfully; "that trouble last night spoiled my rest. I knew the woman Margeret lied when she came back and said it was only an accident. I'm nervous as a cat today. The doctors forbid me every form of excitement, yet they quarter a Yankee spy in the room over mine, and commence shooting affairs in the middle of the night. It's—it's outrageous!"

He fell back in the chair, exhausted by his indignation. Judithe took the fan from Pluto's hand and waved it gently above the dark, vindictive face. His eyes were closed and as she surveyed the cynical countenance a sudden determination came to her. If she should leave for Savannah in the morning, why not let Matthew Loring hear, first, of the plans for Loringwood's future? She knew how to hurt Kenneth McVeigh; she meant to see if there was any way of hurting this trafficker in humanity, this aristocratic panderer to horrid vices.

"You may go, Pluto," she said, kindly. "I will ring if you are needed."

Both the colored men went out, closing the door after them, and she brought a hassock and placed it beside his chair, and seated herself, after taking a book from the shelf and opening it without glancing at the title or pages.

"Since you refuse to be entertainer, Monsieur Loring, you must submit to being entertained," she said, pleasantly; "shall I sing to you, read to you, or tell you a story?"

Her direct and persistent graciousness made him straighten up in his chair and regard her, inquiringly; there was a curious mocking tone in her voice as she spoke, but the voice itself was forgotten as he looked in her face.

The light from the lamp was shining full on her face, and the face was closer to him than it had ever been before. If she designed to dazzle him by thus arranging a living picture for his benefit she certainly succeeded. He had never really seen her until now, and he caught his breath sharply and was conscious that one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life was looking at him with a strange smile touching her perfect mouth, and a strange haunting resemblance to some one once known, shining in her dark eyes.

"What sort of stories do you prefer—love stories?" she continued, as he did not speak—only stared at her; "or, since we have had a real adventure in the house last night, possibly you would be interested in the intrigue back of that—would you?"

"Do you mean," he asked, eagerly, "that you could give me some new facts concerning the spy—Monroe?"

"Yes, I really think I could," she said, amiably, "as there happen to be several things you have not been well informed upon."

"I know it!" he said, tapping the arm of the chair, impatiently, "they never tell me half what is going on, now!—as if I was a child! and when I ask the cursed niggers, they lie so. Well, well, go on; tell me the latest news about this Yankee—Monroe."

"The very latest?" and she smiled again in that strange mocking way. "Well, the latest is that he is entirely innocent; had nothing whatever to do with the taking of the papers."

"Madame Caron!"

"Yes, I am quite serious. I was just about to tell Colonel McVeigh, but we can chat about it until he comes;" and she pretended not to notice the wonder in his face, and went serenely on, "in fact, it was not a man who took the papers at all, but a woman; yes, a woman," she said, nodding her head, as a frown of quick suspicion touched his forehead and his eyes gleamed darkly on her, "in fact a confidential agent, whom Captain Masterson designated yesterday as most dangerous to the Confederate cause. I am about to inform Colonel McVeigh of her identity. But I do not fancy that will interest you nearly so much as another story I have for you personally."

She paused and drew back a little, to better observe every expression of his countenance. He was glaring at her and his breath was coming in broken gasps.

"There are really two of those secret Federal agents in this especial territory," she continued, "two women who have worked faithfully for the Union. I fancied you might be especially interested in the story of one of them, as she belongs to the Loring family."

"To our family? That is some cursed Yankee lie!" he burst out fiercely, "every Loring is loyal to the South! To our family? Let them try to prove that statement! It can't be done!"

"You are quite right, Monsieur Loring," she agreed, quietly, "it would be difficult to prove, even if you wished to do it." He fairly glared at the possibility that he should want to prove it. "But it may have an interest to you for all that, since the girl in question was your brother's daughter."

"My brother's—!" He seemed choking, and he gazed at her with a horrible expression. The door opened and Mrs. McVeigh entered rather hastily, looking for something in the desk. Loring had sunk back in the chair, and she did not see his face, but she could see Judithe's, and it was uplifted and slightly smiling.

"Have you found something mutually interesting?" she asked, glancing at the book open on Judithe's knee.

"Yes; a child's story," returned her guest, and then the door closed, and the two were again alone.

"There is a woman to be loved and honored, if one could only forget the sort of son she has trained," remarked Judithe, thoughtfully, "with my heart I love her, but with my reason I condemn her. Can you comprehend that, Monsieur Loring? I presume not, as you do not interest yourself with hearts."

He was still staring at her like a man in a frightened dream; she could see the perspiration standing on his forehead; his lips were twitching horribly.

"You understand, of course," she said, continuing her former discussion, "that the daughter in the story is not the lovely lady who is your heiress, and who is called Miss Loring. It is a younger daughter I refer to; she had no surname, because masters do not marry slaves, and her mother was a half Greek octoroon from Florida; her name was Retta Lacaris, and your brother promised her the freedom she never received until death granted her what you could not keep from her; do you remember that mother and child, Monsieur Loring?—the mother who went mad and died, and the child whom you sold to Kenneth McVeigh?—sold as a slave for his bachelor establishment; a slave who would look like a white girl, whom you contracted should have the accomplishments of a white girl, but without a white girl's inconvenient independence, and the power of disposing of herself."

"You—you dare to tell me!—you—" He was choking with rage, but she raised her hand for silence, and continued in the same quiet tone:

"I have discussed the same affair in the salons of Paris—why not to you? It was in Paris your good friend, Monsieur Larue, placed the girl for the education Kenneth McVeigh paid for. It was also your friend who bribed her to industry by a suggestion that she might gain freedom if her accomplishments warranted it. But you had forgotten, Matthew Loring, that the child of your brother had generations of white blood—of intellectual ancestry back of her. She had heard before leaving your shores the sort of freedom she was intended for, and your school was not a prison strong enough to hold her. She escaped, fled into the country, hid like a criminal in the day, and walked alone at night through an unknown county, a girl of seventeen! She found a friend in an aged woman, to whom she told her story, every word of it, Matthew Loring, and was received into the home as a daughter. That home, all the wealth which made it magnificent, and the title which had once belonged to her benefactress, became the property of your brother's daughter before that daughter was twenty years old. Now, do you comprehend why one woman has crossed the seas to help, if possible, overthrow an institution championed by you? Now do you comprehend my assurance that Captain Monroe is innocent? Now, dare you contest my statement that one of the Loring family is a Federal agent?"

"By God! I know you at last!" and he half arose from his chair as if to strike her with both upraised shaking hands. "I—I'll have you tied up and whipped until you shed blood for every word you've uttered here! You wench! You black cattle! You—"

"Stop!" she said, stepping back and smiling at his impotent rage. "You are in the house of Colonel McVeigh, and you are speaking to his wife!"

He uttered a low cry of horror, and fell back in the chair, nerveless, speechless.

"I thought you would be interested, if not pleased," she continued, "and I wanted, moreover, to tell you that your sale of your brother's child was one reason why your estate of Loringwood was selected in preference to any other as a dowered home for free children—girl children, of color! Your ancestral estate, Monsieur Loring, will be used as an industrial home for such young girls. The story of your human traffic shall be told, and the name of Matthew Loring execrated in those walls long after the last of the Lorings shall be under the sod. That is the monument I have designed for you, and the design will be carried out whether I live or die."

He did not speak, only sat there with that horrible stare in his eyes, and watched her.

"I shall probably not see you again," she continued, "as I leave for Savannah in the morning, unless Colonel McVeigh holds his wife as a spy, but I could not part without taking you into my confidence to a certain extent, though I presume it is not necessary to tell you how useless it would be for you to use this knowledge to my disadvantage unless I myself should avow it. You know I have told you the truth, but you could not prove it to any other, and—well, I think that is all." She was replacing the book in the case when Gertrude entered from the hall. Judithe only heard the rustle of a gown, and without turning her head to see who it was, added, "Yes, that is all, except to assure you our tete-a-tete has been exceedingly delightful to me; I had actually forgotten that a storm was raging!"



CHAPTER XXIX.

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; 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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."