THORNE TAKES CHARGE OF THE TELEGRAPH OFFICE
Arrelsford stared after the departing figures with a mixture of
amusement, contempt, and annoyance in his glance. So soon as the door
had closed behind them he turned to Lieutenant Foray, who was regarding
him with ill-concealed aversion.
“Let me have that despatch,” he began in his usual peremptory manner.
“You said you had an order, sir,” returned Foray stubbornly.
“Yes, yes,” replied the Secret Service Agent impatiently, throwing an
order on the table, “there it is, don’t waste time.”
But Lieutenant Foray was not satisfied, principally because he did not
wish to be. He scrutinised the order carefully, and with great distaste
at its contents. It was quite evident that if he could have found a
possible pretext for refusing obedience, he would gladly have done so.
His sympathies were entirely with Miss Mitford.
“I suppose you are Mr. Benton Arrelsford, all right?” he began
deliberately, fingering the paper.
“Certainly I am,” returned Arrelsford haughtily.
“We have to be very careful nowadays,” continued Foray shortly. “But I
reckon it’s all right. Here’s the telegram.”
“Did the girl seem nervous or excited when she handed this in?” asked
the other, taking the message.
“Do you mean Miss Mitford?” asked Foray reprovingly.
“Certainly, who else?”
“Yes, she did.”
“She was anxious not to have it seen by anybody?”
“Anxious, I should say so. She didn’t even want me to see it.”
“Umph!” said Arrelsford. “I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Foray, that we
are on the track of a serious affair and I believe she’s mixed up in
it.”
“But that despatch is to young Varney, a mere boy, the General’s son,”
urged the Lieutenant.
“I didn’t know he had gone to the front. So much the worse. It’s one of
the ugliest affairs we have ever had. I had them put me on it, and I
have got it pretty close. We have had some checks but we will end it
right here in this office inside of thirty minutes.”
There was a slight tap on the door at this juncture. Arrelsford turned
to the door, opened it, and found himself face to face with a soldier,
who saluted and stood at attention.
“Well, what is it?”
“The lady’s here, sir,” said the soldier.
“Where is she?” asked Arrelsford.
“Waiting down below at the front entrance.”
“Did she come alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Show her up here at once. I suppose you have a revolver here,”
continued the Secret Service Man, turning to Lieutenant Foray, who had
listened with much interest.
“Certainly,” answered Foray, “we are always armed in the telegraph
office.”
From a drawer in the table he drew forth a revolver which he laid on the
top of the table.
“Good,” said Arrelsford, “while I want to handle this thing myself, I
may call you. Be ready, that’s all.”
“Very well.”
“Obey any orders you may get, and send out all despatches unless I stop
you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you don’t mind, I don’t care to have all these messenger boys
coming back here. I will order them to stop in the hall. If you have any
messages for them, you can take them out there. I don’t want to have too
many people in the room.”
“Very good, sir. Will you give the order to your orderly when he brings
up the young lady?”
“Yes.”
Arrelsford stepped to the door, and Foray busied himself with the
clicking instruments. After a few minutes’ conversation with the
orderly, who had just returned, Arrelsford ushered Edith Varney into the
room. With not even a glance at the operator in her intense
preoccupation, the girl spoke directly to Arrelsford.
“I—I’ve accepted your invitation, you see.”
“I am greatly obliged to you, Miss Varney,” returned Arrelsford with
deferential courtesy. “As a matter of justice to me, it was——”
“I didn’t come to oblige you,” answered Edith, haughtily.
She had never liked Mr. Arrelsford. His addresses had been most
unpleasant and unwelcome to her, and now she not only hated him but she
loathed him.
“I came here,” she continued, as Arrelsford attempted to speak, “to see
that no more——” her voice broke for a moment, “murders are committed
here—to satisfy your singular curiosity.”
“Murders!” exclaimed Arrelsford, flushing deeply.
The girl nodded.
“The Union soldier who escaped from prison——” she began.
“Is the man dead?” interrupted Arrelsford.
“The man is dead.”
“It is a curious thing, Miss Varney,” continued the other with cutting
emphasis, “that one Yankee prisoner more or less should make so much
difference to you, isn’t it? They are dying down in Libby by the
hundreds.”
“At least they are not being killed in our houses, in our drawing-rooms,
before our very eyes!”
She confronted Arrelsford with a bitterly reproachful glance, before
which his eyes for a moment fell, and he was glad indeed to turn to
another orderly who had just entered the room.
“Have you kept track of him!” he asked in a low voice.
“He’s coming down the street to the Department now, sir.”
“Where has he been since he left Mrs. Varney’s house?”
“He went to his quarters on Gary Street. We got in the next room and
watched him through a transom.”
“What was he doing?”
“Working on some papers or documents.”
“Could you see them? Did you see what they were?”
“They looked like orders from the War Department, sir.”
“He is coming here with forged orders, I suppose.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir.”
“I surmise that his game is to get control of these wires and then send
out despatches to the front that will take away a battery or a brigade
from some vital point, the vital point indicated by ‘Plan 3.’ That’s
where they mean to attack to-night.”
“Looks like it, sir,” agreed the orderly respectfully.
“‘Plan 3,’ that’s where they will hit us,” mused the Secret Service
Agent. “Is there a guard in the building?”
“Not inside, sir,” answered the orderly, “there’s a guard in front and
sentries around the barracks over in the square.”
“If I shouted, they could hear from this window, couldn’t they?” asked
Arrelsford.
“The guard in front could hear you, sir. But the time is getting short.
He must be nearly here, you’d better look out, sir.”
Edith Varney had heard enough of the conversation to understand that
Thorne was coming. Of course it would never do for him to see her there.
“Where am I to go?” she asked.
“Outside here on the balcony,” said Arrelsford. “There is no closet in
the room and it is the only place. I will be with you in a moment.”
“But if he should come to the window?”
“We will step in at the other window. Stay, orderly, see if the window
of the Commissary General’s Office, the next room to the left, is open.”
They waited while the orderly went out on the balcony and made his
inspection.
“The window of the next room is open, sir,” he reported.
“That’s all I want of you. Report back to Corporal Matson. Tell him to
get the body of the prisoner out of the Varney house. He knows where
it’s to go.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Mr. Foray,” continued Arrelsford, “whoever comes here you are to keep
on with your work and don’t give the slightest sign of my presence to
any one on any account. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Foray from the telegraph table in the centre of the
room.
He had caught something of the conversation, but he was too good a
soldier to ask any questions, beside his business was with the
telegraph, not with Mr. Arrelsford.
“Now, Miss Varney,” said the Secret Service Agent, “this way, please.”
He opened the middle window. The girl stepped through, and he was about
to follow when he caught sight of a messenger entering the room. Leaving
the window, he retraced his steps.
“Where did you come from?” he said abruptly to the young man.
“War Department, sir.”
“Carrying despatches’?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know me, don’t you?”
“I’ve seen you at the office, sir, and——”
“I’m here on Department business,” said Arrelsford. “All you have to do
is to keep quiet about it. Weren’t you stopped in the hall?”
“Yes, sir, but I had a despatch from the President that had to be
delivered to Lieutenant Foray.”
“Well, it is just as well,” said Arrelsford. “Don’t mention having seen
me to anybody under any pretext and stay here. You might be needed. On
second thoughts, Foray, let any messenger come in.”
With that Mr. Arrelsford stepped out onto the balcony through the window
which he closed after him, and he and Edith disappeared from view.
“Messenger,” said Foray, “step down the hall and tell the private there
that by Mr. Arrelsford’s orders, messengers are allowed to come up as
they report.”
The room which had been the scene of these various colloquies became
silent save for the continuous clicking of the telegraph keys. Presently
two messengers came back and took their positions as before.
Hard on their heels entered Captain Thorne. He was in uniform, of
course, and a paper was tucked in his belt. He walked rapidly down the
room, acknowledged the salutes of the messengers, and stopped before the
table. His quick scrutiny of the room as he advanced had shown him that
there was no one present except the messengers and Lieutenant Foray.
Foray glanced up, nodded, finished taking the despatch which was on the
wires at the time, wrote it out, put it in its envelope, and then rose
to his feet and saluted.
“Captain Thorne,” he said.
“Lieutenant Foray,” replied Thorne, taking the order from his belt and
handing it to the operator.
“Order from the Department?” asked Foray.
“I believe so,” answered Thorne briefly.
Lieutenant Foray opened it and read it.
“They want me to take a cipher despatch over to the President’s house,”
he said as he finished.
“Yes,” said Thorne, moving to the vacant place at the table. He pulled
the chair back a little, tossed his hat on the other table, and
otherwise made himself at home.
“I am ordered to stay here until you get back,” he began casually,
shoving the paper aside and stretching his hand toward the key.
“That’s an odd thing, Captain,” began Lieutenant Foray dubiously. “I
understood that the President was meeting with the Cabinet. In fact,
Lieutenant Allison went over there to take some code work a moment ago.
He must have gone home, I reckon.”
“Looks like it,” said Thorne quietly. “If he is not at home you had
better wait.”
“Yes,” said Foray, moving away, “I suppose I had better wait for him.
You will have to look out for Allison’s wire though on the other table.
He was called over to the Department.”
“Oh, Allison!” said Thorne carelessly. “Be gone long, do you think?” he
continued as he seated himself at the table and began to arrange the
papers.
“Well, you know how it is. They generally whip around quite a while
before they make up their minds what they want to do. I don’t suppose
they will trouble you much. It’s as quiet as a church down the river.
Good-night.”
“See here, Mr. Foray, wait a moment. You had better not walk out and
leave—no matter,” continued Thorne, as the operator stopped and turned
back. “It’s none of my business, still if you want some good advice,
that is a dangerous thing to do.”
“What is it, Captain?” asked Foray, somewhat surprised.
“Leave a cigar lying around an office like that. Somebody might walk in
any minute and take it away. I can’t watch your cigars all day.”
He picked up the cigar, and before Foray could prevent it, lighted it
and began to smoke. Foray laughed.
“Help yourself, Captain, and if there is any trouble you will find a
revolver on the table.”
“I see,” said Thorne, “but what makes you think there is going to be
trouble?”
“Oh, well there might be.”
“Been having a bad dream?” asked the Captain nonchalantly.
“No, but you never can tell. All sorts of things are liable to happen in
an office like this, and——.”
“That’s right,” said Thorne, puffing away at his cigar, “you never can
tell. But see here. If you never can tell when you are going to have
trouble you had better take that gun along with you. I have one of my
own.”
“Well,” said the operator, “if you have one of your own, I might as
well.”
He took the revolver up and tucked it in his belt. “Look out for
yourself, Captain. Good-bye. I will be back as soon as the President
gives me that despatch. That despatch I have just finished is for the
Commissary General’s Office, but it can wait until the morning.”
“All right,” said Thorne, and the next moment the operator turned away
while the clicking of the key called Thorne to the table. It took him
but a few minutes to write the brief message which he addressed and
turned to the first messenger, “Quartermaster General.”
“He wasn’t in his office a short time ago, sir,” said the messenger.
“Very well, find him. He has probably gone home and he has to have this
message.”
“Very good, sir.”
The key kept up its clicking. In a short time another message was
written off.
“Ready here,” cried Thorne, looking at the other messenger. “This is for
the Secretary of the Treasury, marked private. Take it to his home.”
“He was down at the Cabinet meeting a little while ago, sir,” said the
second messenger.
“No difference, take it to his house and wait until he comes.”
The instant the departing messenger left him alone in the room, Thorne
leaped to his feet and ran with cat-like swiftness to the door, opened
it, and quickly but carefully examined the corridor to make sure that no
one was there on duty. Then he closed the door and turned to the nearest
window, which he opened also, and looked out on the balcony, which he
saw was empty. He closed the window and came back to the table,
unbuckling his belt and coat as he came. These he threw on the table.
The coat fell back, and he glanced in the breast pocket to see that a
certain document was in sight and at hand, where he could get it
quickly. Then he took his revolver, which he had previously slipped from
his belt to his hip pocket, and laid it down beside the instrument.
After a final glance around him to see that he was still alone and
unobserved, he seized the key on which he sounded a certain call. An
expert telegrapher would have recognised it, a dash, four dots in rapid
succession, then two dots together, and then two more (—.... .. ..). He
waited a few moments, and when no answer came he signalled the call a
second time, and after another longer wait he sent it a third time.
After this effort he made a longer pause, and just as he had about
reached the end of his patience—he was in a fever of anxiety, for upon
what happened in the next moment the failure or the success of the whole
plan absolutely turned—the silent key clicked out an answer, repeating
the same signal which he himself had made. The next moment he made a
leap upon the key, but before he could send a single letter steps were
heard outside in the corridor.
Thorne released the key, leaned back in his chair, seized a match from
the little holder on the table and struck it, and when another messenger
entered he seemed to be lazily lighting his cigar. He cursed in his
heart at the inopportune arrival. Another uninterrupted moment and he
would have sent the order, but as usual he gave no outward evidence of
his extreme annoyance. The messenger came rapidly down toward the table
and handed Captain Thorne a message.
“From the Secretary of War, Captain Thorne,” he said saluting, “and he
wants it to go out right away.”
“Here, here,” said Thorne, as the messenger turned away, “what’s all
this?” He ran his fingers through the envelope, tore it open, and spread
out the despatch. “Is that the Secretary’s signature?” he asked.
The messenger came back.
“Yes, sir; I saw him sign it myself. I’m his personal messenger.”
“Oh!” said Thorne, spreading the despatch out on the table and O.K.’ing
it, “you saw him sign it yourself, did you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. We have to be pretty careful to-night,” he explained, “there
is something on. You are sure of this, are you?”
“I could swear to that signature anywhere, sir,” said the messenger.
“Very well,” said Thorne, “you may go.”