CHAPTER XV

LOVE AND DUTY AT THE TOUCH

Thorne’s case was now absolutely hopeless. By the testimony of two

witnesses a thing is established. All that Arrelsford had seen Edith had

seen. All that he knew, she knew. She had only to speak and the plan had

failed; the cleverly constructed scheme would fall to pieces. His

brother’s life would have been wasted, nay more, his own life also; for

well did he realise that the bold way he had played the game would the

more certainly hasten his immediate execution. A spy in the Confederate

capital!

He could reproach himself with nothing. He had done his very best. An

ordinary man would have failed a dozen times in the struggle. Courage,

adroitness, resourcefulness, and good fortune had carried him so far,

but the odds were now heavily against him and nothing that he could do

would avail him anything. The game was played and he had lost;

Arrelsford had triumphed.

Thorne, in the one word that Edith Varney was to speak, would lose life,

honour, and that for which he had risked both. And he would lose more

than that. He would lose the love of the woman who had never seemed so

beautiful to him as she stood there, pale-faced, erect, the very

incarnation of self-sacrifice, as were all the women of the Confederacy.

And he would lose more than her love. He would lose her respect. His

humiliation would be her humiliation. Never so long as she lived could

her mind dwell on him with tenderness. The sound of his name would be a

hissing and a reproach in her ear, his reputation a by-word and a shame.

Her connection with him and that he had loved her would humiliate her

only less than the fact that she had loved him.

His condition was indeed pitiable; yet, to do him justice, his thoughts

were not so much for himself as they were for two other things. First

and foremost bulked largest before him the plan for which he had made

all this sacrifice, which had promised to end the weary months of siege

which Richmond and Petersburg had sustained. His brother had lost his

life, he more than suspected, in the endeavour to carry it out, and now

he had failed. That was a natural humiliation and reproach to his pride,

although as his mind went back over the scene he could detect no false

move on his part. Of course his allowing his love for Edith Varney to

get the mastery of him had been wrong under the circumstances, but that

had not affected the failure or success of his endeavours.

And his thoughts also were for the woman. He knew that she loved him,

she had admitted it, but once his eyes had been opened, he could have

told it without any admission at all. All that he had suffered, she had

suffered, and more. If she would be compelled to apologise for him, she

would also be compelled to assume the defensive for him. She loved him

and she was placed in the fearful position of having to deal the blow.

The words which would presently fall from her lips would complete his

undoing. They would blast his reputation forever and send him to his

death. He knew they would not be easy words for her to speak. He knew

that whatever his merit or demerit, she would never forget that it was

she who had completed his ruin; the fact that she would also ruin the

plan against her country would not weigh very heavily in her breaking

heart against that present personal consideration—after a while maybe

but not at first. And therefore he pitied her.

He drew himself erect to meet his fate like a man, and waited. The wait

was a long one. Edith Varney was having her own troubles. She knew as

well as any one the importance of her testimony. She had come from the

Commissary General’s vacant office and had been back at the window long

enough to have heard the conversation between General Randolph and the

two men. She was an unusually keen-witted girl and she realised the

situation to the full.

Her confidence in her lover had been shaken, undermined, restored, and

shaken again, until her mind was in a perfect whirl. She did not know,

she could not tell whether he was what he seemed to be or not. It seemed

like treachery to him, this uncertainty. It would be a simple matter to

corroborate Mr. Arrelsford at once, and it occurred to her that she had

no option. But coincident with the question flashed into her mind

something she had forgotten which made it possible for her to answer in

another way. Thus, she understood that the life of her lover hung upon

her decision.

What answer should she make? What course should she take? She realised,

too, that it was quite possible if she saved his life, it might result

in the carrying out of the plan about which there had been so much

discussion and which threatened so much against her country. If he were

false and she saved him he would certainly take advantage of the

respite. If he were true and she saved him no harm could come to her

country. She was intensely patriotic. And that phase of the problem

worried her greatly.

Her eyes flashed quickly from the vindictive yet triumphant fact of

Arrelsford, whom she loathed, to the pale, composed, set face of Thorne,

whom she loved, and her glance fell upon his wounded left wrist, tied

up, the blood oozing through the handkerchief. A wave of sympathy and

tenderness filled her breast. He was hurt, suffering—that decided her.

With one brief, voiceless prayer to God for guidance, she turned to

General Randolph, and it was well that she spoke when she did, for the

pause had become insupportable to Thorne at least. He had made up his

mind to relieve the dilemma and confess his guilt so that the girl would

not have to reproach herself with a betrayal of her lover or her cause,

that she might not feel that she had been found wanting at the crucial

moment. Indeed, Thorne would have done this before but his duty as a

soldier enjoined upon him the propriety, the imperative necessity, of

playing the game to the very end. The battle was not yet over. It would

never be over until he faced the firing party.

And then Edith’s voice broke the silence that had become so tense with

emotion.

“Mr. Arrelsford is mistaken, General Randolph,” she said quietly,

“Captain Thorne has the highest authority in this office.”

Arrelsford started violently and opened his mouth to speak, but General

Randolph silenced him with a look. The blood of the old general was up,

and it had become impossible for any one to presume in the least degree.

Thorne started, too. The blood rushed to his heart. He thought he would

choke to death. What did the girl mean?

“The highest authority, sir,” continued Edith Varney, slowly drawing out

the commission, which every one but she had forgotten in the excitement,

“the authority of the President of the Confederate States of America.”

Well, she had done it for weal or for woe. She had made her decision.

Had it been a wise decision? Had she acted for the best? What interest

had governed her, love for Thorne, love for her country, or love for her

own peace of mind? It was in the hands of General Randolph now. The girl

turned slowly away, unable to sustain the burning glances of her lover

and the vindictive stare of Arrelsford.

“What’s this?” said General Randolph. “Umph! A Major’s Commission. In

command of the Telegraph Department. Major Thorne, I congratulate you.”

“That commission, General Randolph!” exclaimed Arrelsford, his voice

rising, “let me explain how she——”

“That will do from you, sir,” said the General, “you have made enough

trouble as it is. I suppose you claim that this is a forgery, too——”

“Let me tell you, sir,” persisted the Secret Service Agent.

“You have told me enough as it is. Sergeant, take him over to

headquarters.”

“Fall in there!” cried the Sergeant of the Guard. “Two of you take the

prisoner. Forward, march!”

Two men seized Arrelsford, and the rest of them closed about him. To do

the man justice, he made a violent struggle and was only marched out at

the point of the bayonet, protesting and crying:

“For God’s sake, he’s in the Yankee Secret Service! He’ll send that

despatch out. His brother brought in the signal to-night!”

All the way down the corridor he could be heard yelling and struggling.

General Randolph paid not the slightest attention to him. He stepped

over to the telegraph table beside which Thorne stood—and with all the

force of which he was capable the young man could hardly control the

trembling of his knees.

“Major Thorne,” he said reprovingly as Thorne saluted him, “all this

delay has been your own fault. If you had only had sense enough to

mention this before we would have been saved a damned lot of trouble.

There’s your commission, sir.” He handed it to Thorne, who saluted him

again as one in a dream. “Come, gentlemen,” he said to his officers, “I

can’t understand why they have to be so cursed shy about their Secret

Service orders! Lieutenant Foray?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take your orders from Major Thorne.”

“Yes, sir,” returned Foray.

“Good-night,” said the General, forgetful of the fact apparently that

Edith Varney was still standing by the window.

“Good-night, sir,” answered Thorne.

Foray moved over to the table at the right, while Thorne leaped to his

former position, and his hand sought the key. At last he could send his

message, there was nothing to prevent him or interrupt him now, he was

in command. Could he get it through? For a moment he forgot everything

but that, as he clicked out the call again, but he had scarcely pressed

the button when Edith Varney stepped to his side.

“Captain Thorne,” she said in a low voice, giving him the old title.

He looked up at her, stopping a moment.

“What I have done gives you time to escape from Richmond,” she

continued.

“Escape!” whispered Thorne, clicking the key again. “Impossible!”

“Oh,” said the girl, laying her hand on his arm, “you wouldn’t do

it—now!”

And again the man’s fingers remained poised over the key as he stared at

her.

“I gave it to you to—to save your life. I didn’t think you’d use it for

anything else. Oh! You wouldn’t!”

Her voice in its low whisper was agonising. If her face had been white

before, what could be said of it now? In a flash Thorne saw all. She had

been confident of his guilt, and she had sought to save his life because

she loved him, and now because she loved her country she sought to save

that too.

The call sounded from the table. Thorne turned to it, bent over it, and

listened. It was the call for the message. Then he turned to the woman.

She looked at him; just one look. The kind of a look that Christ might

have turned upon Peter after those denials when He saw him in the

courtyard early on that bitter morning of betrayal. “I saved you,” the

girl’s look seemed to say, “I redeemed you and now you betray me!” She

spoke no words, words were useless between them. Everything had been

said, everything had been done. She could only go. Never woman looked at

man nor man looked at woman as these two at each other.

The woman turned, she could trust herself no further. She went blindly

toward the door. The man followed her slowly, crushing the commission in

his hand, and ever as he went he heard the sound of the call behind him.

He stopped halfway between the door and the table and watched her go,

and then he turned.

Lieutenant Foray understanding nothing of what had transpired, but

hearing the call, had taken Thorne’s place before the table. He had the

despatch about which there had been so much trouble, and upon which the

whole plan turned, in his hand before him.

“They are calling for that despatch, sir,” he said as Thorne stared at

him in agony. “What shall I do with it?”

“Send it,” said the other hoarsely.

“Very good, sir,” answered Foray, seating himself and taking hold of the

key, but the first click of the sounder awakened Thorne to action.

“No, no!” he cried. “Stop!” He rushed forward and seized the despatch.

“I won’t do it!” he thundered. With his wounded hand and his well one he

tore the despatch into fragments. “Revoke the order. Tell them it was a

mistake instantly. I refuse to act under this commission!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

BOOK IV

WHAT HAPPENED AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK

CHAPTER XVI

THE TUMULT IN HUMAN HEARTS

Of the many frightful nights in Richmond during the siege, that night

was one of the worst. The comparative calmness of the earlier hours of

repose of the quiet April evening gave way to pandemonium. The works at

Petersburg, desperately held by the Confederates, were miles away from

the city to the southward, but such was the tremendous nature of the

cannonading that the shocking sounds seemed to be close at hand.

Children cowered, women shuddered, and old men prayed as they thought of

the furious onslaughts in the battle raging.

The Richmond streets were filled with people, mostly invalids,

non-combatants, women, and children. A tremendous attack was being

launched by the besiegers somewhere, it was evident. Urgent messengers

from General Lee called every reserve out of the garrison at Richmond,

and the quiet streets and country highways awoke instantly to life. Such

troops as could be spared moved to the front at the double-quick. Every

car of the dilapidated railroad was pressed into service. Those who

could not be transported by train went on horseback or afoot. The

youngest boy and the oldest man alike shouldered their muskets, and with

motley clothes, but with hearts aflame, marched to the sound of the

cannon. The women, the sick, the wounded and invalid men and the

children waited.

Morning would tell the tale. Into the city from which they marched, men

and boys would come back; an army nearly as great as had gone forth, but

an army halting, maimed, helpless, wounded, suffering, shot to pieces.

They had seen it too often not to be able to forecast the scene

absolutely. They knew with what heroic determination their veterans,

under the great Lee, were fighting back the terrific attacks of their

brothers in blue, under the grimly determined Grant. They could hear his

great war-hammer ringing on their anvil; a hammer of men, an anvil of

men. Plan or no plan, success or no success of some Secret Service

operations, some vital point was being wrestled for in a death-grapple

between two armies; and all the offensive capacities of the one and all

the defensive resources of the other were meeting, as they had been

meeting during the long years.

In a time like that, of public peril and public need, private and

personal affairs ought to be forgotten, but it was not so. Love and

hate, confidence and jealousy, faithfulness and disloyalty,

self-sacrifice and revenge, were still in human hearts. And these

feelings would put to shame even the passions engendered in the bloody

battles of the fearful warfare.

Edith Varney, for instance, had gone out of the telegraph office assured

that the sacrifice she had made for her lover had resulted in the

betrayal of her country; that Thorne had had not even the common

gratitude to accede to her request, although she had saved his life,

and, for the time being, his honour. Every cannon-shot, every crashing

volley of musketry that came faintly or loudly across the hills seemed

pointed straight at her heart. For all she knew, the despatch had been

sent, the cunningly devised scheme had been carried out, and into some

undefended gap in the lines the Federal troops were pouring. The defence

would crumble and the Army would be cut in two; the city of Richmond

would be taken, and the Confederacy would be lost.

And she had done it! Would she have done it if she had known? She had

certainly expected to establish such a claim upon Thorne by her

interposition that he could not disregard it. But if she had known

positively that he would have done what she thought he did, would she

have sent him to his death? She put the question to herself in agony.

And she realised with flushes of shame and waves of contrition that she

would not, could not have done this thing. She must have acted as she

had, whatever was to come of it. Whatever he was, whatever he did, she

loved that man. She need not tell him, she need tell no one, there could

be no fruition to that love. She must hide it, bury it in her bosom if

she could, but for weal or woe she loved him above everything else, and

for all eternity.

Where was he now? Her interposition had been but for a few moments. The

truth was certain to be discovered. There would be no ultimate escape

possible for him. She heard shots on occasion nearer than Petersburg, in

the city streets. What could they mean? Short, short would be his shrift

if they caught him. Had they caught him? Certainly they must, if they

had not. She realised with a thrill that she had given him an

opportunity to escape and that he had refused it. The sending of that

despatch had been more to him than life. Traitor, spy, Secret Service

Agent—was there anything that could be said for him? At least he was

faithful to his own idea of duty.

She had met Caroline Mitford waiting in the lower hall of the telegraph

office, and the two, convoyed by old Martha, had come home together.

Many curious glances had been thrown at them, but in these great

movements that were toward, no one molested them. The younger girl had

seen the agony in her friend’s face. She had timidly sought to question

her, but she had received no answer or no satisfaction to her queries.

Refusing Caroline’s proffered services when she reached home, Edith had

gone straight to her own room and locked the door.

The affair had been irritating beyond expression to Mr. Arrelsford. It

had taken him some time to establish his innocence and to get his

release from General Randolph’s custody. Meanwhile, everything that he

had hoped to prevent had happened. To do him justice, he really loved

Edith Varney, and the thought that her actions and her words had caused

his own undoing and the failure of his carefully laid plans, filled him

with bitterness, which he vented in increased animosity toward Thorne.

These were bitter moments to Mrs. Varney. She had become somewhat used

to her husband being in the thick of things, but it was her boy now that

was in the ranks. The noise of the cannon and the passing troops threw

Howard into a fever of anxiety which was very bad for him.

And those were dreadful moments to Thorne. What had he done? He had

risked everything, was ready to pay everything, would, indeed, be forced

to do so in the end, and yet he had not done that which he had intended.

Had he been false to his duty and to his country when he refused to send

that telegram, being given the opportunity? He could not tell. The

ethics of the question were beyond his present solution. The opportunity

had come to him through a piece of sublime self-sacrifice on the part of

the woman, who, knowing him thoroughly and understanding his plan and

purpose, had yet perjured herself to save his life.

That life was hers, was it not? He had become her prisoner as much as if

she had placed him under lock and key and held him without the

possibility of communication with any one. Her honour was involved. No,

under the circumstances, he could not send the despatch. The

Confederates would certainly kill him if they caught him, and if they

did not, and by any providential chance he escaped, his honour would

compel him to report the circumstances, the cause of his failure, to his

own superiors. Would they court-martial him for not sending the

despatch? Would they enter into his feelings, would they understand?

Would the woman and her actions be considered by them as determining

factors? Would his course be looked upon as justifiable? He could not

flatter himself that any one of these things would be so considered by

any military court. There would be only two things which would influence

his superiors in their judgment of him. Did he get a chance, and having

it, did he use it?

The popular idea of a Secret Service Agent, a spy, was that he would

stick at nothing. As such men were outside the pale of military

brotherhood, so were they supposed to have a code of their own. Well,

his code did not permit him to send the despatch when his power to send

it had been procured in such a way. It was not so much love for the

woman as it was honour—her honour, suddenly put into his keeping—that

turned him from the key. When both honour and love were thrown into the

scale, there was no possibility of any other action. He could not see

any call of duty paramount to them.

He stood looking at Foray for a while, and then, without a further

command to that intensely surprised young man, or even a word of

explanation, he seized his hat and coat and left the room. Foray was a

keen-witted officer, he reviewed the situation briefly, and presently a

great light dawned upon him. A certain admiration for Thorne developed

in his breast, and as Allison opportunely came back at this juncture, he

turned over the telegraph office to his subordinate, and in his turn

went out on what he believed to be an exceedingly important errand.

Thorne found the streets full of people. He had not marked the beginning

of the cannonading in the tumult of the office, but the lights, the

bells pealing alarms from every church-steeple, the trampling of horses

and men, and the roll of the gun-carriages apprised him of what was

toward. Trusting that Thorne had been able to carry out his part, Grant

was attacking the place indicated by “Plan 3” in heavy force.

What was Thorne to do? Obviously attempt to escape from Richmond,

although it would be a matter of extreme difficulty on account of the

alarm which now aroused every section. He could not go, either, until he

had seen his brother. He surmised that he was dead, but he could not

know that; and he determined not to attempt to leave without making

assurance double sure. It was a duty he owed to his brother, to his

father in the Union Army, and to his superiors in the Federal Secret

Service. If that brother were alive, he must be at the Varney house. He

fancied that he would run as little chance of being observed in the

excitement going in that direction as in any other, and he started to

make his way there.

The fact that Edith was there influenced him also. Was the call of love

and the living as great, or greater than the call of duty and the dying

or the dead? Who shall say?

And the remote chance that he might be observed on the way was taken by

his ever-vigilant enemy; for Arrelsford, upon obtaining his freedom, had

sent the troops at the disposal of the Secret Service to hunt him down,

and one of them caught sight of him. The shout of the observer apprised

him of his discovery. He threw one glance behind him and then ran for

his life. He had no especial hope of escaping, but he might get to the

Varney house ahead of the soldiers, and he might see his brother, and he

might see the woman he loved for a moment before he was taken and

killed.

If it had not been for the two he would have stopped and given himself

up. Somehow he did not care for life. His life was forfeit to the

Federals and the Confederates alike. When she thought to save it, Edith

Varney had doomed him. Also he felt that she had damned him. But he ran

on and on, doubling and turning on his tracks; white-faced, desperate,

his breath coming fainter, his heart beating faster, as he ran.

CHAPTER XVII

WILFRED PLAYS THE MAN

A sharp contrast to the noise outside was presented by the quiet of the

Varney house inside. The sewing women, in view of the attack and the

movements of the boys and the old men, had separated sooner than they

had intended and had gone their several ways. Old Jonas, frightened to

death, remained locked up in the closet where he had been left by

Arrelsford’s men. Martha was upstairs in Howard’s room, making ready to

watch over him during the night.

Caroline Mitford had not gone home. She had sent word that she intended

to pass the night at the Varney house. Somehow she thought they seemed

to need her. She was standing by one of the long front windows in the

drawing-room, now a scene of much disorder because of the recent

struggle. Tables were thrust aside out of their places, chairs were

turned over, and there was a big dark spot on the carpet where Henry

Dumont had poured out his life-blood unavailingly.

Caroline stared out of the window at the flashes of light. She listened,

with heaving breast and throbbing heart, to the roar of the cannon and

the rattle of musketry. She had heard both many times lately, but now it

was different, for Wilfred was there. Mrs. Varney came upon her with her

hand pressed against her breast, her face white and staring, tears

brimming her eyes, but, as usual, Mrs. Varney was so engrossed with her

own tremendous troubles that she had little thought for the girl.

“Caroline,” she began anxiously, “tell me what happened. Edith won’t

speak to me. She has locked herself up in her room. What was it? Where

has she been? What——”

“She was at the telegraph office,” answered Caroline in a low voice.

“What did she do there? What happened there?”

“I am not sure.”

“But try to tell me, dear.”

“I would if I could, Mrs. Varney, but I was afraid and ran out and

waited for her in the hall. The rest of them——” The girl broke off as

the deep tones of the city bells clanged sharply above the diapason of

artillery.

“It’s the alarm bell,” said Mrs. Varney.

“Yes,” said Caroline, “they are calling out the last reserves.”

“Yes; hark to the cannonading. Isn’t it awful?” returned Mrs. Varney.

“They must be making a terrible attack to-night. Lieutenant Maxwell was

right; that quiet spell was a signal.”

“There goes another battery of artillery,” said Caroline, staring

through the window. “A man told us that they were sending them all over

to Cemetery Hill. That’s where the fighting is, Cemetery Hill.”

“General Varney’s Division is to the right of that position, or was the

last time I heard from him,” said Mrs. Varney anxiously.

The two women looked at each other for a moment, both of them thinking

the same thought, to which neither dared give utterance. The object of

their thought was the boy, and the continuous flashes of light on the

horizon seemed to make the situation more horrible.

“I am afraid they are going to have a bad time of it to-night,” said

Caroline, drawing the curtains and turning away from the window.

“I’m afraid so,” was the rejoinder. “Now, try to think, dear, who was at

the telegraph office? Can’t you tell me something that occurred that

will explain Edith’s silence? She looks like death, and——”

“I can’t tell you anything except that they arrested Mr. Arrelsford.”

“Mr. Arrelsford! You don’t mean that?”

“Yes, I do,” answered Caroline. “General Randolph,—I went and brought

him there, because they wouldn’t send my telegram,—he was in a fearful

temper——”

“But Edith? Can’t you tell me what she did?”

“I can’t, Mrs. Varney, for I don’t know. I waited for her in the hall,

and when she came out she couldn’t speak. Then we hurried home. I tried

to get her to tell me, but she wouldn’t say a word except that her heart

was broken, and that’s all I know, Mrs. Varney, truly, truly.”

“I believe you, my dear. I know you would tell me if you could.”

“I certainly would, for I love——”

There was a loud ring at the front door. It was evidently unlocked, for,

without waiting for an answer, it was thrown open, roughly, and through

the hall and into the drawing-room stalked Mr. Arrelsford. He was wildly

excited, evidently in a tremendous hurry, and utterly oblivious to

manners or anything else. He had been checked and thwarted so many times

that he was in a bad temper for anything.

“Is your daughter in the house?” he began roughly, without any further

preliminaries or salutation, without even removing his hat.

Mrs. Varney drew herself up and looked at him. But he paid no attention

to her at all.

“Answer,” he said harshly.

She bowed her head in the affirmative, scarcely able to speak in her

indignation at his manner and bearing.

“I wish to see her.”

“I don’t believe she will care to receive you at present,” returned her

mother quietly.

“What she cares to do at present is of small consequence. I must see her

at once. Shall I go up to her room with these men, or will you have her

down here?”

The room had filled with soldiers as the two spoke together.

“Neither the one nor the other, sir,” said Mrs. Varney, who was not in

the least afraid of Mr. Arrelsford or his soldiers, “until I know your

business with her.”

“My business,—a few questions,—I’ve got a few questions to ask her.

Listen to that noise out yonder? Do you hear those guns and the troops

passing by? Now, you know what ‘Attack to-night, Plan 3,’ means.”

“Is that the attack!” asked Mrs. Varney.

“That’s the attack. They are breaking through our lines at Cemetery

Hill. That was the place indicated by ‘Plan 3.’ We are rushing to the

front all the reserves we have, to the last man and boy, but they may

not get there in time.”

“What, may I ask, has my daughter to do with it?”

“Do with it? She did it!” asserted Arrelsford bitterly.

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Varney, in a great outburst of indignation. “How

dare you!”

“We had him in a trap, under arrest, the telegraph under guard, when she

brought in that commission. We would have shot him in a moment, but they

took me prisoner and let him go.”

“Impossible!” whispered Mrs. Varney. “You don’t mean——”

“Yes, she did. She put the game in his hands. He got control of the

wires and the despatch went through. As soon as I could get to

headquarters I explained, and they saw the trick. They rushed the guard

back, but the scoundrel had got away. Foray was gone, too, and Allison

knew nothing about it, but we’re after him, and if she knows where he

is,” he turned as if to leave the room and ascend the stairs, “I will

get it out of her.”

“You don’t suppose that my daughter would——” began Mrs. Varney.

“I suppose everything.”

“I will not believe it,” persisted the mother.

“We can’t wait for what you believe,” said Arrelsford roughly, this time

taking a step toward the door.

Mrs. Varney caught him by the arm.

“Let me speak to her,” she pleaded.

“No, I will see her myself.”

But Miss Mitford, who had been the indirect cause of so much trouble,

once more interposed. She had listened to him with scarcely less

surprise than that developing in Mrs. Varney’s breast. She took a

malicious joy in thwarting the Secret Service Agent. She barred the way,

her slight figure in the door, with arms extended.

“Where is your order for this?” she asked.

Arrelsford stared at her in surprise.

“Get out of my way,” he said curtly; “I have a word or two to say to you

after I have been upstairs.”

“Show me your order,” persisted the girl, who made not the slightest

attempt to give way.

“It’s Department business and I don’t require an order.”

“You are mistaken about that,” said Caroline with astonishing

resourcefulness. “This is a private house, it isn’t the telegraph office

or the Secret Service Department. If you want to go upstairs or see

anybody against their will, you will have to bring an order. I don’t

know much, but I know enough for that.”

Arrelsford turned to Mrs. Varney.

“Am I to understand, madam,” he began, “that you refuse——”

But before Mrs. Varney could answer, the soldiers Arrelsford had brought

with him gave way before the advent of a sergeant and another party of

men. The Sergeant advanced directly to Mrs. Varney, touched his cap to

her, and began:

“Are you the lady that lives here, ma’am?”

“Yes, I am Mrs. Varney.”

“I have an order from General Randolph’s office to search this house

for——”

“Just in time,” said Arrelsford, stepping toward the Sergeant; “I will

go through the house with you.”

“Can’t go through on this order,” said the Sergeant shortly.

“You were sent here to——” began Mrs. Varney.

“Yes; sorry to trouble you, ma’am, but we’ll have to be quick about it.

If we don’t find him here we’ve got to follow him down Franklin Street;

he’s over this way somewhere.”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Man named Thorne, Captain of Artillery,” answered the Sergeant; “that’s

what he went by, at least. Here, two of you this way! That room in there

and the back of the house. Two of you outside,” pointing to the windows.

“Cut off those windows. The rest upstairs.”

The men rapidly dispersed, obeying the commands of the Sergeant, and

began a thorough search of the house. Caroline Mitford preceded them up

the stairs to Edith’s room. Arrelsford, after a moment’s hesitation,

stepped toward the door and went out, followed by his men. Without a

word of acknowledgment or even a bow to Mrs. Varney, he and his men

presently left the house. As he did so, two of the Sergeant’s men

reëntered the room, shoving old Jonas roughly before them. The man’s

livery was torn and dirty, his head was bound up, and he showed signs of

the rough handling he had undergone.

“Where did you get that?” asked the Sergeant contemptuously.

“He was locked in a closet, sir.”

“What were you doing in there?” He turned to the old negro. “If you

don’t answer me, we will shoot the life out of you.” He raised his

revolver threateningly. “Belongs to you, I reckon,” he said to Mrs.

Varney.

“Yes, my butler; they locked him up. Mr. Arrelsford wants him for

carrying a message.”

“That’s all right,” said the Sergeant. “If he wants him, he can have

him. We’re looking for some one else. Put him back in his closet. Here,

this room! Be quick now! Cover that door. Sorry to disturb you, ma’am.”

“Do what you please,” said Mrs. Varney; “I have nothing on earth to

conceal.”

As the men hurriedly withdrew to continue their search, the voice of a

newcomer was heard on the porch. The words came to them clearly:

“Here, lend a hand, somebody, will you?”

The next moment General Varney’s orderly entered the room, caught sight

of the Sergeant, saluted, and then turned to Mrs. Varney.

“I’ve brought back your boy, ma’am,” he said.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Varney faintly; “what do you mean——?”

“We never got out to General Varney’s. We ran into a Yankee raiding

party, cavalry, down here about three miles. Our home-guard was

galloping by on the run to head them off, and before I knew what he was

about, the boy was in with ’em, riding like mad. There was a bit of a

skirmish, and he got a clip across the neck. Nothing at all, ma’am. He

rode back all the way, and——”

“Oh, my boy! He’s hurt—he’s hurt——”

“Nothing serious, ma’am; don’t upset yourself,” returned the orderly

reassuringly.

“Where did you——”

But that moment the object of their solicitude himself appeared on the

scene. The boy was very pale, and his neck was bandaged. Two of the

Sergeant’s men supported him.

“Oh, Wilfred!” cried his mother; “my boy!”

“It’s nothing, mother,” said Wilfred, motioning her away. “You don’t

understand.” The boy tried to free himself from the men who still held

him by the arm. “What do you want to hold me like that for?” he

expostulated, as he drew himself away and took a few steps. “You see I

can walk,” he protested.

His words were brave, but his performance was weak. His mother came

close to him and extended her arms toward him. But Wilfred was a soldier

now, and he did not want any scenes. Therefore, with a great effort, he

took her hand in as casual a manner as possible, quite like a stranger

paying an afternoon call.

“How do you do, mother?” he said. “You didn’t expect me back so soon,

did you? I will tell you how it was. Don’t you go away, orderly. I will

just rest a minute, and then I will go back with you.” Another outburst

of the cannon and the frantic pealing of the alarm bells caught his

attention. “See, they are ringing the bells calling out the reserves.”

He started toward the door. “I will go right now.”

“No, no, Wilfred,” said his mother, taking his arm; “not now, my son.”

“Not now?” said Wilfred, whose weakness was growing apparent. “Do you

hear those—those—those bells and—then tell me not—to go—why——”

He swayed and tottered.

“Stand by there!” cried the Sergeant.

The two men immediately caught hold of him as he fainted. They carried

him to the lounge.

“Find some water, will you?” continued the Sergeant. “Put his head down,

ma’am, and he’ll be all right in a minute. He’s only fainted.”

One of the privates who had hurried off in search of water soon came

back with a basin full, with which Mrs. Varney laved the boy’s head.

“He’ll be all right in a minute,” said the Sergeant. “Come, men.”

He turned as he spoke, and, followed by the men, left the room, leaving

Mrs. Varney with Wilfred and the orderly. It was the latter who broke

the silence.

“If there isn’t anything else, ma’am, I believe I’d better report back

to the General.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Varney, “don’t wait. The wound is dressed, isn’t it?”

“Yes; I took him to the Winder Hospital. They said he would be on his

feet in a day or two, but he wants to be kept pretty quiet.”

“Tell the General how it happened.”

“Very well, ma’am,” said the orderly, touching his cap and going out.

The next person to enter the room was Caroline Mitford. The noise of the

men searching the house was very plain. Having informed Edith of the

meaning of the tumult, she had come downstairs to enquire if they had

found Thorne. She came slowly within the door—rather listlessly, in

fact. The exciting events of the night in which she had taken part had

somewhat sapped her natural vivacity, but she was shocked into instant

action when she saw Wilfred stretched upon the sofa.

“Oh!” she breathed in a low, tense whisper; “what is it? Is he——”

“Caroline dear,” said Mrs. Varney, “it is nothing serious. He isn’t

badly hurt. He was cut in the neck and fainted. There, there,”—the

woman rose from Wilfred’s side and caught the girl,—“don’t you faint,

too, dear.”

“I am not going to faint,” said Caroline desperately. She took Mrs.

Varney’s handkerchief from the latter’s hand, and dipped it in the

water. “I can take care of him,” she continued, kneeling down by her

boyish lover. “I don’t need anybody down here at all. The men are going

all over the house and——”

“But, Caroline——” began Mrs. Varney.

“Mrs. Varney,” returned the girl, strangely quiet, “there’s a heap of

soldiers upstairs, looking in all the rooms. I reckon you’d better go

and attend to them. They will be in Edith’s room, or Howard’s, in a

minute.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Varney, “and Howard so ill. I must go for a few

minutes, anyway. You know what to do?”

“Oh, yes,” answered the girl confidently.

“Bathe his forehead. He isn’t badly hurt, dear. I won’t be long, and he

will soon come to, I am sure,” said Mrs. Varney, hastening away.

Presently Wilfred opened his eyes. He stared about him unmeaningly and

uncomprehendingly for the moment.

“Wilfred, dear Wilfred,” began the girl in soft, low, caressing tones,

“you are not hurt much, are you? Oh, not much! There, you will feel

better in just a moment, dear Wilfred.”

[Illustration: “You are not hurt much, are you?”]

“Is there—are you——?” questioned Wilfred, striving to concentrate his

mind on the problem of his whereabouts and her presence.

“Oh, Wilfred, don’t you know me?”

“What are you talking about?” said Wilfred more strongly. “Of course I

know you. Where am I?” And as full consciousness came back to him, “What

am I doing, anyway? Taking a bath?”

“No, no, Wilfred; you see I am bathing your head. You fainted a little,

and——”

“Fainted!” exclaimed Wilfred in deep disgust. “I fainted!” He made a

feeble attempt to rise, but sank back weakly. “Yes, of course, I was in

a fight with the Yankees and got wounded somewhere.”

He stopped, puzzled, staring strangely, almost afraid, at Caroline.

“What is it?” asked the girl.

“See here,” he began seriously; “I will tell you one thing right now. I

am not going to load you up with a cripple, not much.”

His resignation was wonderful.

“Cripple!” exclaimed Caroline, bewildered.

“I reckon I’ve got an arm knocked off, haven’t I?”

“No, you haven’t, Wilfred; they are both on all right.”

“Perhaps it was a hand that they shot away?”

“Not a single one,” said Caroline.

“Are my—my ears on all right?”

“Yes,” answered the girl. “You needn’t bother about them for a moment.”

Wilfred staked all on the last question.

“How many legs have I got left?”

“All of them,” answered Caroline; “every one.”

“Then, if there’s enough of me left to—to amount to anything—you’ll

take charge of it, just the same? How about that?”

“That’s all right,” said the girl, burying her face on his shoulder.

Wilfred got hold of her hand and kissed it passionately. He seemed quite

strong enough for that.

“I tried to send you a telegram but they wouldn’t let me,” whispered

Caroline suddenly, raising her head and looking at him.

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say in it?”

But here the girl’s courage failed her.

“Tell me what you said,” persisted Wilfred.

“It was something very nice,” faltered poor Caroline.

“It was, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Was it as nice as this?” asked Wilfred, suddenly lifting his head and

kissing her.

“I don’t know about that,” stammered Caroline, blushing a beautiful

crimson, “but it was very nice. I wouldn’t have tried to telegraph it if

it was something bad, would I?”

“Well, if it was so good,” said Wilfred, “why on earth didn’t you send

it?”

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Caroline; “how could I when they wouldn’t

let me?”

“Wouldn’t let you?”

“I should think not. They had a dreadful time at the telegraph office.”

“At the telegraph office; were you there?” Wilfred made a violent effort

to recollect. “I have it,” he said in stronger tones; “they told me at

the hospital. I must get up.”

“No, no; you mustn’t,” said Caroline, interposing.

“Don’t,” said Wilfred; “I have to attend to it.” He spoke with a stern,

strange decision, entirely foreign to his previous idle love-making. “I

know all about Thorne. He gets hold of our Department Telegraph and

sends out a false order, weakens our defences at Cemetery Hill.” The boy

got to his feet by this time, steadying himself by Caroline’s shoulder.

“They are down on us in a moment.” A look of pain, not physical, shot

across his face, but he mastered it. “And she gave it to him, the

commission; my sister Edith!” he continued bitterly.

“Oh!” said Caroline; “you know——”

“I know this. If my father were here, he’d see her. As he isn’t here, I

will attend to it. Send her to me.”

He spoke weakly, but in a clear voice and a most imperative manner. He

took his hand off Caroline’s shoulder. If he were to deal with this, so

grave and critical a situation, he must do it without feminine support.

By a great effort he held himself resolutely erect, repeating his

command.

“Send her to me.”

“No,” said Caroline faintly, just as Mrs. Varney reëntered the room.

“What is it?” asked the mother.

“He wants to see Edith,” returned the girl.

“Not now, Wilfred,” persisted Mrs. Varney; “you are weak and ill, and

Edith——”

“Tell her to come here, I must see her at once,” repeated Wilfred.

Mrs. Varney instantly divined the reason. Caroline had told him about

the telegraph office, but she could see no advantage to be gained by the

interview he sought.

“It won’t do you any good, Wilfred,” she said. “She won’t speak a word

to anybody about it.”

“I don’t want her to speak to me,” returned the boy grimly; “I am going

to speak to her.”

“But some other time, Wilfred,” urged his mother.

“No, no; immediately,” but as no one made the slightest effort toward

complying with his demand, “Very well,” he continued, moving slowly

toward the door, and by a determined effort keeping his feet. “If you

won’t send her to me, I will——”

“There, there,” said Mrs. Varney, interposing swiftly; “if you must, you

must. Since you insist, I will call her.”

“I do insist.”

“Stay with him, dear,” said Mrs. Varney to Caroline, “and I will go and

call her.”

“No,” said Wilfred, “I want to see her alone.”

Wondering much at this move of her boy-lover, but somehow feeling that

Wilfred represented his father and the law, Caroline, after one long

look at his pale but composed face, turned and followed Mrs. Varney out

of the room.

CHAPTER XVIII

CAPTAIN THORNE JUSTIFIES HIMSELF

After the two women had left him, Wilfred stood motionless for a moment,

and then sat wearily down to rest. Scarcely had he done so when he heard

shouts far outside in the street, the heavy trampling of feet, cries,

directions, orders. He rose and walked over to the window. The cries

were growing louder and the footsteps more distinct. Men were

approaching the house rapidly, he could tell that they were running.

What could they be? What was toward? A suspicion flashed into his mind.

It had hardly found lodgment there when Thorne sprang upon the porch,

leaped across it, and burst through the other front window into the long

room. A pedestal with a bust of Washington on it was standing between

the windows. As Thorne sprang back from the window, he knocked against

it. It fell to the floor with a tremendous crash.

He stood staring a moment toward the window, listening while the noise

of the running feet died away in the distance. It seemed that he had

distanced his pursuers or eluded them for the time being. It could only

be for a moment, however; he had other things to think of. Well, that

moment would be enough; it was all he required. He turned to go down the

room, only to find himself confronted by the boy.

It is hard to say which was the more surprised of the two—Thorne at

seeing Wilfred, or Wilfred at Thorne’s appearance. The latter’s face was

pale, his breath was coming rapidly, he was bareheaded. His brow was

covered with sweat, and he had the hunted, desperate look of a man at

the very end of his resources. Neither at first said anything to the

other. It was Thorne who first recovered himself. He sought to pass by

the boy, but Wilfred seized him.

“Halt!” he cried; “you are under arrest.”

“Wait a moment!” gasped out Thorne; “and I will go with you.”

As he spoke he shook himself loose from the weak grasp of the wounded

young man, and started down the room.

“Halt, I say!” cried Wilfred. “You are my prisoner.”

“All right, all right,” said Thorne quietly; “your prisoner, anything

you like. Here,”—he drew his revolver from his pocket and pushed it

into the boy’s hand; “take this, shoot the life out of me, if you wish;

but give me a chance to see my brother first.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes. He was shot here to-night. I want one look at his face; that’s

all.”

“Where is he?”

“Maybe they put him in the room across the hall yonder.”

“What would he be doing there?” asked Wilfred, not yet apprehending the

situation from Thorne’s remarks.

“Nothing,” said the other bitterly; “I guess he is dead.”

“Wait,” said Wilfred. He stepped across the hall, keeping Thorne covered

with his revolver. “Don’t move; I will see.” He threw open the door,

glanced in, and then came back. “It’s a lie!” he said.

“What!” exclaimed Thorne.

“There is no one in there. It is just one of your tricks. Call the

guard!” He shouted toward the hall, and then toward the window.

“Sergeant of the Guard! Captain Thorne is here, in this house.”

He stepped out on the porch and shouted again with astonishing power for

one so painfully wounded as he. Then the boy felt a faintness come over

him. He sank down on a seat on the porch and leaned his head against the

house, and sought to recover his strength, fighting a desperate battle;

fearful lest Thorne should escape while he was thus helpless.

It was Edith Varney who first replied to his frantic summons by hurrying

into the room. She was as much surprised to see Thorne as he was to see

her. Her heart leaped in her bosom at the sight of him, and she stared

at him as at a wraith or a vision.

“You wouldn’t tell me an untruth, would you?” said Thorne, coming closer

to her. “He was shot in this room an hour ago, my brother Henry. I’d

like to take one look at his dead face before they send me the same way.

Where is he? Can’t you tell me that much, Miss Varney? Is he in the

house?”

Edith looked at his face, shook her head a little, and moved away from

him toward the table. Thorne threw up his hands in a gesture of despair,

and turned toward the window. As he did so, Wilfred, having recovered

from his faintness a little, called out again:

“The guard! The escaped prisoner, Captain Thorne!”

This time his frantic outcry was answered. At last they were closing in

upon the wretched man. He turned from the window and faced the girl,

scarcely less wretched than he, and laughed shortly.

“They are on the scent, you see,” he said; “they’ll get me in a minute;

and when they do, it won’t take them long to finish me off. And as

that’ll be the last of me, Miss Varney, maybe you’ll listen to one

thing. We can’t all die a soldier’s death, in the roar and glory of

battle, our friends about us, under the flag we love. No, not all! Some

of us have orders for another kind of work, dare-devil, desperate work,

the hazardous schemes of the Secret Service. We fight our battles alone,

no comrades to cheer us on, ten thousand to one against us, death at

every turn. If we win, we escape with our lives; if we lose, we are

dragged out and butchered like dogs. No soldier’s grave, not even a

trench with the rest of the boys—alone, despised, forgotten! These were

my orders, Miss Varney; this is the death I die to-night, and I don’t

want you to think for one moment that I am ashamed of it; no, not for

one moment.”

The sound of heavy feet drew nearer. Wilfred called again, while the two

in the room confronted each other, the man erect, and the woman, too. A

strange pain was in her heart. At least here was a man, but before she

could say a word in answer to his impassioned defence, the room filled

with soldiers.

“There’s your man, Sergeant,” said Wilfred; “I hand him over to you.”

“You are my prisoner,” said the Sergeant.

His command was reinforced by a number of others, including Corporal

Matson and his squad, and some of the men of the Provost Guard, who had

been chasing Thorne through the streets. At this juncture, Arrelsford,

panting and breathless, also joined the company in the drawing-room. He

came in rapidly, thrusting aside those in his way.

“Where is he?” he cried. “Ah!” he exclaimed triumphantly, as his eye

fell upon Thorne, standing quietly, surrounded by the soldiers. “We’ve

got him, have we?”

“Young Mr. Varney, here, took him, sir,” said the Sergeant.

“So,” returned Arrelsford to his prisoner, “run down at last. Now, you

will find out what it costs to play your little game with our Government

Telegraph lines.”

But Thorne did not turn his head, although Arrelsford spoke almost in

his ear. He looked straight at Edith Varney, and she returned his

glance.

“Don’t waste any time, Sergeant,” said Arrelsford furiously. “Take him

down the street and shoot him full of lead. Out with him.”

“Very well, sir,” said the Sergeant.

But Wilfred interposed. He came forward, Thorne’s revolver still in his

hand.

“No,” he said decisively; “whatever he is, whatever he has done, he has

the right to a trial.”

“The head of the Secret Service Department said to me if I found him, to

shoot him at sight,” snarled Arrelsford.

“I don’t care what General Tarleton said. I captured this man; he’s in

this house, and he is not going out unless he is treated fairly.”

The Sergeant looked uncertainly from Wilfred to Arrelsford. Mrs. Varney,

who had entered with the rest of them, and who now stood by her

daughter’s side, looked her approval at her son. The mettle of his

distinguished father was surely in his veins.

“Well done,” said the woman softly, but not so softly that those about

her did not hear; “your father would have spoken so.”

Arrelsford came to a sudden decision.

“Well, let him have a trial. We’ll give him a drumhead court-martial,

but it will be the quickest ever held on earth. Stack your muskets here,

and organise a court,” he said.

“Fall in here,” cried the Sergeant, at which the men quickly took their

places. “Attention! Stack arms! Two of you take the prisoner. Where

shall we find a vacant room, ma’am?”

“Across the hall,” said Mrs. Varney; “where the ladies were sewing this

evening.”

“Very good,” said the Sergeant. “Left face! Forward, march!”

Arrelsford and Wilfred followed the soldiers.

“I am the chief witness,” said the former.

“I will see that he gets fair play,” remarked the latter, as they

marched out.

“I must go to Howard,” said Mrs. Varney; “this excitement is killing

him; I am afraid he will hardly survive the night. Caroline is with him

now.”

“Very well, mother,” said Edith, going slowly up the now deserted room

and standing in the window, looking out into the night, thinking her

strange, appalling thoughts. They would convict him, shoot him, there

was no hope. What had he said? He was not ashamed of his work. It was

the highest duty and involved the highest and noblest sacrifice, because

it made the greatest demand; and they would shoot him like a mad dog.

“Oh, God!” she whispered; “if some bullet would only find my heart as

well.”

CHAPTER XIX

THE DRUMHEAD COURT-MARTIAL

It so happened that the soldiers who had thrust old Jonas back in his

closet, whence they had taken him a short time before, in their haste,

had failed to lock the door upon him. The negro, who had listened for

the click of the key in the lock, had at once known of their

carelessness. So soon as they had withdrawn from the room, and their

search took them to other parts of the house, he had opened the door

cautiously and had made his way toward the hall by the drawing-room,

which he felt instinctively was the place where the exciting events of

the night would soon culminate.

Thorne’s entry and the circumstances of his apprehension had been so

engrossing that no one had given a thought to Jonas, or to any other

part of the house, for that matter, and he had been able to see

everything through the hangings. He was a quick-witted old negro, and he

knew, of course, that there would be but one verdict given by such a

court-martial as had assembled. Now, the men who composed the court

would of necessity be detailed to carry out their own sentence. The long

room was filled with stacks of guns. Every soldier, even those under the

command of Corporal Matson in Arrelsford’s Department, had gone to the

court-martial. There was nothing else of interest to attract them in the

house. Every gun was there in that room, unguarded.

A recent capture of a battalion of Federal riflemen had put the

Confederates into possession of a few hundred breech-loading weapons,

not of the latest and most approved pattern, for the cartridges in these

guns were in cardboard shells, but still better than any the South

possessed. These rifles had been distributed to some of the companies in

garrison at Richmond, and it so happened that the men of the Secret

Service squad and the Provost Guard had received most of them. Every gun

in the stacks was of this pattern.

In his earlier days, Jonas had been his young master’s personal

attendant, his body-servant, and as such he had often gone hunting with

him. During the war he had frequently visited him in camp, charged with

messages of one sort or another, and he knew all about weapons.

As he stared into the long room after the departing soldiers, he did not

know Edith Varney was still there, nor could he see her at all, for she

was on the other side of the curtain, looking out of the window, and it

seemed to him that the room was empty.

Jonas was a very intelligent negro, and while under any ordinary

circumstances his devotion to his master and mistress would have been

absolutely sure, yet he had become tinged with the ideas of freedom and

liberty in the air. He had assisted many and many a Union prisoner.

Captain Thorne, by his pleasant ways and nice address, had won his

heart. And he himself was deeply concerned personally that the young man

should not be punished for his attempt to bring about the success of the

Union cause, which Jonas felt to be his own cause. Therefore he had a

double motive to secure the freedom of his principal if it were in any

way possible. Of course, any direct interposition was out of the

question. He was still only a slave. His open interference would have

been fruitless of any consequences except bad ones for himself, and he

was already more than compromised by the events of the night. What he

was to do he must do by stealth.

As he stared at the pyramids of guns, listening to the hum of

conversation from the room across the hall—the door had been

fortunately closed—a thought came to him. He pushed aside the portières

with which he had concealed himself, and entered the room by the back

door. He glanced about apprehensively. He was not burdened with any

overplus of physical courage, and what he did was the more remarkable,

especially in view of the fact that the soldiers might return at any

moment and catch him at what they could very easily construe as an act

of high treason, which would result in his blood being mingled with that

of Captain Thorne, in the same gutter, probably.

He moved with cat-like swiftness in the direction of the first stack of

rules. He knelt down by it, seized the nearest gun, which lay across the

other three, swiftly opened the breech-plug, drew out the cartridge,

looked at it a moment, put the end of it in his mouth, and crunched his

strong white teeth down upon it. When he finished, he had the leaden

bullet in his mouth, and the cardboard shell in his hand. He replaced

this latter in the chamber and closed the breech-plug. A smile of

triumph irradiated his sable features. The gun could be fired, but

whatever or whoever stood in front of it would be unharmed.

He had not been quite sure that he could do this, but the result of his

experiment convinced him. All the other guns were of the same character,

and, given the time, he could render them all harmless. He did not waste

time in reflection, but started in with the same process on the others.

He worked with furious haste until every bullet had been bitten off

every cartridge. It would have been impossible to have drawn the bullets

of the ordinary muzzle-loading rifle, or army musket, in twenty times

the period.

The noise of Jonas’ first entrance had attracted the attention of Edith

Varney. She had turned with the intention of going into the room, but,

on second thought, she had concealed herself further behind the

curtains. Between the wall and the edge of the portières was a little

space, through which she peered. She saw the whole performance, and

divined instantly what was in Jonas’ mind, and what the result of his

actions would be.

In an incredibly short time, considering what he had to do, the old

negro finished his task. He rose to his feet and stood staring

triumphantly at the long stacks of guns. He even permitted himself a low

chuckle, with a glance across the hall to the court. Well, he had at

least done something worthy of a man’s approbation in this dramatic game

in which he was so humble a player.

Now Edith Varney, who had observed him with mingled admiration and

resentment—resentment that he had proven false to her people, her

family; and admiration at his cleverness—stepped further into the room

as he finished the last musket, and, as he started toward the lower end

of the room to make good his escape, she coughed slightly.

Jonas stopped and wheeled about instantly, frightened to death, of

course, but somewhat relieved when he saw who it was who had had him

under observation, and who had interrupted him. He realised at once that

it was no use to attempt to conceal anything, and he threw himself upon

the mercy of his young mistress, and, with great adroitness, sought to

enlist her support for what he had done.

“Dey’s gwine to shoot him, shoot him down lak a dog, missy,” he said in

a low, pleading whisper, “an’ Ah couldn’t b’ah to see ’em do dat. Ah

wouldn’t lak to see him killed, Ah wouldn’t lak it noways. You won’t say

nuffin’ about dis fo’ de sake ob old Jonas, what always was so fond ob

you ebah sense you was a little chile. You see, Ah jes’ tek dese

yeah”—he extended his hand, full of leaden bullets—“an’ den dey won’t

be no ha’m cum to him whatsomebah, les’n dey loads ’em up agin. When dey

shoots, an’ he jes’ draps down, dey’ll roll him obah into de guttah, an’

be off lak mad. Den Ah kin be neah by an’”—he stopped, and, if his face

had been full of apprehension before, it now became transformed with

anxiety. “How’s he gwine to know?” he asked. “If he don’t drap down,

dey’ll shoot him agin, an’ dey’ll hab bullets in dem next time. What Ah

gwine to do, how Ah gwine to tell him?”

Edith had listened to him as one in a dream. Her face had softened a

little. After all, this negro had done this thing for the man she—God

forgive her—still loved.

“You tell him,” whispered Jonas; “you tell him, it’s de on’y way. Tell

him to drap down. Do dis fo’ ole Jonas, honey; do it fo’ me, an’ Ah’ll

be a slabe to you as long as Ah lib, no mattah what Mars Linkum does.

Listen,” said the old man, as a sudden commotion was heard in the room

across the hall. “Dey gwine to kill him. You do it.”

Nothing could be gained by remaining. He had said all he could, used

every argument possible to him, and, realising his danger, he turned and

disappeared through the back door into the dark rear hall. There was a

scraping of chairs and a trampling of feet, a few words heard

indistinctly, and then the voice of the old Sergeant:

“Fall in! Right Face! Forward—March!”

Before they came into the hall, Jonas made one last appeal. He thrust

his old black face through the portieres, his eyes rolling, his jaws

working.

“Fo’ Gawd’s sek, missy, tell him to drap down,” he whispered as he

disappeared.

Wilfred, not waiting for the soldiers, came into the room, and Caroline

followed him.

“Where’s mother?” asked Wilfred.

“She’s gone up to Howard; I think he is dying,” said Caroline. “She

can’t leave him for anybody or anything.”

If Edith heard, she gave no sign. She stood motionless on the other side

of the room, and stared toward the door; they would bring him back that

way, and she could see him again.

“Wilfred dear,” asked Caroline, “what are they going to do?”

“Shoot him.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Where?”

“Out in the street.”

Caroline’s low exclamation of pity struck a responsive chord in

Wilfred’s heart. He nodded gravely, and bit his lips. He did not feel

particularly happy over the situation, evidently, but the conversation

was interrupted by the entrance of the men. They came into the room in a

double line, Thorne walking easily between them. They entered the room

by the door, marched down it, came back, and ranged themselves opposite

the stacks of arms.

“Halt!” cried the Sergeant. “Right Face! Take arms! Carry arms! Left

face! Forward—March!”

Edith had not taken her eyes off Thorne since he had reëntered the room.

She had watched him as if fascinated. He had shot at her one quick,

searching glance, and then had kept his eyes averted, not because he

would not like to look at her, but because he could not bear himself

like a man in these last swift terrible seconds, if he did.

As the men moved to carry out their last order, the girl awoke to her

surroundings.

“Wait,” she said. “Who is in command!”

“I am, miss,” answered the Sergeant.

Arrelsford, who had entered with the soldiers, started at this, but he

said nothing.

“I’d like to speak to the—the prisoner,” continued Edith.

“I’m sorry, miss,” answered the Sergeant respectfully, but abruptly;

“but we haven’t the time.”

“Only a word, Sergeant,” pleaded the girl, stepping close to him, and

laying her hand on his arm.

The Sergeant looked at her a moment. What he saw in her eyes touched his

very soul.

“Very well,” he said. “Right face! Fall out the prisoner!”

Thorne stepped out in front of the ranks.

“Now, Miss,” said the Sergeant; “be quick about it.”

“No!” said Wilfred sternly.

“Oh, Wilfred!” cried Caroline, laying her hand on his arm. “Let her

speak to him, let her say good-bye.”

There was an instant’s pause. Wilfred looked from Caroline’s flushed,

eager face, to Edith’s pale one. After all, what was the harm? He nodded

his head, but no one moved. It was the Sergeant who broke the silence.

“The lady,” he said, looking at Thorne, and pointing at Edith. As he

spoke, he added another order. “Matson, take your squad and guard the

windows. Prisoner, you can go over to the side of the room.”

The Sergeant’s purpose was plain. It would give Edith Varney an

opportunity to say what she had to say to Thorne in a low voice if she

chose, without the possibility of being overheard. The initiative must

come from the woman, the man realised. It was Edith who turned and

walked slowly across the room, Thorne followed her more rapidly, and the

two stood side by side. They were thus so placed by the kindness of the

veteran that she could speak her words, and no one could hear what they

were.

“One of the servants,” began the girl in a low, utterly passionless and

expressionless voice, “Jonas, has taken the bullets from the guns. If

you will drop when they fire, you can escape with your life.”

In exactly the same level, almost monotonous, voice, Thorne whispered a

pertinent question:

“Shall I do this for you?”

“It is nothing to me,” said the woman quietly, and might God forgive

her, she prayed, for that falsehood.

Thorne looked at her, his soul in his eyes. If her face had been carved

from marble, it could not have been more expressionless and indifferent.

He could not know how wildly her heart was beating underneath that stony

exterior. Well, she had turned against him. He was nothing to her. There

was no use living any longer. She did not care.

“Were you responsible in any way for it?” he asked.

The girl shook her head and turned away without looking at him. She had

not the least idea of what he was about to do. Not one man in a thousand

would have done it. Perhaps if he went to his death in some quixotic

way, he might redeem himself in her eyes, had flashed into Thorne’s

mind, as he turned to the guard.

“Sergeant,” he said, saluting. He spoke in a clear, cool, most

indifferent way. “You had better take a look at the rifles of your

command. I understand they have been tampered with.”

“What the hell!” cried the Sergeant, seizing a piece from the nearest

man. He snapped open the breech-plug and drew out the cartridge and

examined it. Some one had bitten off the bullet! He saw everything

clearly. “Squad ready!” he cried. “Draw cartridges!”

There was a rattling of breech-plugs and a low murmur of astonishment,

as every man found that his cartridge was without a bullet.

“With ball cartridges, load!” cried the Sergeant. “Carry arms!”

When this little manœuvre, which was completed with swiftness and

precision because the men were all veterans, was finished, the Sergeant

turned to the prisoner, who had stood composedly watching the

performance which took away his last opportunity for escape, and saluted

him with distinct admiration.

“I am much obliged to you, sir,” he said.

How Edith Varney kept her feet, why she did not scream or faint away,

she could not tell. Thorne’s words had petrified her. Her pride kept her

from acknowledging what she felt. She had never dreamed of any such

action on his part, and it seemed to her that she had sent him to his

death again. How could she retrace her steps, repair her blunder? There

was nothing to do. But her countenance changed. A look of such desperate

entreaty came into her face as fully betrayed her feelings. Of the

people in the room, only Arrelsford observed her, and even his jealousy

and resentment were slightly softened by her visible anguish. Everybody

was staring at Thorne, for they all knew the result of his remarkable

action, although no one could in the least degree fathom the reason.

It was Wilfred who broke the silence. He walked slowly up to Thorne and

thrust out his hand.

“I would like to shake hands with you,” he said admiringly, and for the

first time in the long hours a slight smile quivered about the man’s

lips. It was the generous, spontaneous tribute of youth that gave him

that moment of melancholy satisfaction.

“Oh,” thought Edith, watching her brother; “if only I dared to do the

like.”

“Is this for yourself?” asked Thorne, “or your father?”

“For both of us, sir,” answered Wilfred.

Thorne shook him by the hand. The two looked into each other’s faces,

and everybody saw the satisfaction and gratification of the older man.

“That’s all, Sergeant,” said Thorne, turning away.

“Fall in the prisoner! Escort left face! Forward—March!” cried the

Sergeant.

At that moment a man, breathless from having run rapidly, entered the

room by the window. His uniform was that of an officer, and he wore a

Lieutenant’s shoulder-straps.

“Halt!” he cried, as he burst into the room. “Are you in command,

Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“General Randolph’s on the way here with orders. You will please wait

until——”

But Arrelsford now interposed.

“What orders, Lieutenant? Anything to do with this case?”

The officer looked greatly surprised at this intervention by a civilian,

but he answered civilly enough:

“I don’t know what his orders are. He has been with the President.”

“But I sent word to the Department,” said Arrelsford, “that we had got

the man, and were going to drumhead him on the spot.”

“Then this must be the case, sir. The General wishes to be present.”

“It is impossible,” returned Arrelsford. “We have already held the

court, and I have sent the findings to the Secretary. The messenger is

to get his approval and meet us at the corner of the street yonder. I

have no doubt he is waiting there now. It is a mere formality.”

“I have no further orders to give, sir,” said the Lieutenant. “General

Randolph will be here in a minute, but you can wait for him or not, as

you see fit.”

The Sergeant stood uncertain. For one thing, he was not anxious to carry

out the orders he had been given now. That one little action of Thorne’s

had changed the whole situation. For another thing, Arrelsford was only

a civilian, and General Randolph was one of the ranking officers in

Richmond.

“Move on, Sergeant,” said Arrelsford peremptorily. “You have all the

authority you want, and——”

The Sergeant held back, uncertainly, but the day was saved by the advent

of the General himself.

CHAPTER XX

THE LAST REPRIEVE

General Randolph was evidently in a great hurry. Public affairs of great

moment pressed upon him, and it was an evidence of the interest he took

in the case of Captain Thorne that he gave him even a minute of his

valuable time. He had come on horseback, and everybody could see that he

was anxious to get through with his appointed task and get away.

“Ah, Sergeant,” he said, answering the latter’s salute as he brought the

guard to attention, and then his eye fell upon Captain Thorne. “You have

the prisoner, have you?”

“Just taking him out, sir,” answered the Sergeant, saluting again.

“To prison?”

“No, sir.”

“Where, then?”

“To execute the sentence of the court, sir.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the General, looking hard at the Sergeant. “He has had

his trial, has he?”

But Arrelsford, who chafed at thus being left out of the game, now

stepped over and took up the burden of the conversation before the

Sergeant could reply.

“We have done everything according to regulation, sir,” he said,

saluting in a rather cavalier manner. He did not like General Randolph.

If it had not been for his interference, the affair would have been

settled long ago, and he still cherished a grudge against the latter for

having arrested a man so important as the trusted agent of the Secret

Service. “The findings have gone to the Secretary.”

“Ah!” said General Randolph blandly. He did not like Mr. Arrelsford any

better than Mr. Arrelsford liked him.

“Yes, sir.”

“And he was found guilty, I presume?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“And what are you going to do with him?”

“There is no time for a hanging now, and the court has ordered him

shot.”

“Oh, indeed. And what were the charges?”

“Conspiracy against our government and the success of our arms, by

sending a false and misleading despatch containing forged orders, was

the particular specification.”

“Well,” said General Randolph, “I regret to say that the court has been

misinformed.”

“What!” cried Arrelsford, in great surprise. “The testimony was very

plain.”

“Yes, indeed, sir,” interposed the Sergeant.

“Nevertheless,” returned the General, “the man is not guilty of that

charge. The despatch was not sent.”

Now Edith Varney had scarcely moved. She had expected nothing, she had

hoped for nothing, from the advent of the General. At best it would mean

only a little delay. The verdict was just, the sentence was adequate,

and the punishment must and would be carried out. She had listened,

scarcely apprehending, busy with her own thoughts, her eyes fastened on

Thorne, who stood there so pale and composed. But at this remarkable

statement by General Randolph she was suddenly quickened into life. A

low exclamation broke from her lips. A hope, not that his life might be

saved, but that it might be less shameful to love him, came into her

heart. Wilfred stepped forward also.

The terse statement of the General had caused a great deal of excitement

and commotion in the room. Only Thorne preserved his calmness. He was

glad that Edith Varney had learned this, and he was more glad that she

had learned it from the lips of the enemy, but it would make no

difference in his fate. He was not guilty of that particular charge, but

there were dozens of other charges for which they could try him, the

punishment of any one of which was death. Besides, he was a spy caught

in the Confederate lines, wearing a uniform not his own. It was enough

that the woman should learn that he had not taken advantage of her

action; at least she could not reproach herself with that.

“Why, General,” began Arrelsford, greatly dismayed, “I hardly understand

what you mean. That despatch—I saw him myself——”

General Randolph turned on him quickly.

“I say that that despatch was not sent,” he roared, striking the table

with his hand. “I expected to arrive in time for the trial. There is one

here who can testify. Lieutenant Foray?”

From among the group of staff officers who had followed General

Randolph, Lieutenant Foray stepped forward before the General and

saluted.

“Did Captain Thorne send out that despatch after we left you with him in

the office an hour ago?” asked the older officer.

“No, sir,” answered Foray promptly, glancing from Arrelsford’s thwarted

and flushed and indignant countenance to Edith Varney’s face, in which

he saw the light of a great illumination was shining. “No, sir,” he

repeated; “I was just about to send it by his orders, when he

countermanded it and tore up the despatch.”

“And what despatch was it?”

“It was one signed by the Secretary of War, sir, removing Marston’s

Division from Cemetery Hill.”

“You hear, gentlemen,” said the General, and, not giving them time to

answer, he turned again to Foray. “What were Captain Thorne’s words at

the time?”

“He said he refused to act under that commission, and crumpled it up and

threw it away.”

“That will do, Lieutenant,” said General Randolph triumphantly. He

turned to Arrelsford again. “If you are not satisfied, Mr. Arrelsford, I

beg to inform you that we have a despatch, from General Chesney at the

front, in which he says that no orders were received from here. He got

an uncompleted despatch, but could not make anything out of it.

Marston’s Division was not withdrawn from Cemetery Hill, and our

position was not weakened in any way. The attack there has failed.”

There was a low murmur of astonishment from the group of men in the

room. Edith Varney did one significant thing. She made two steps in

Thorne’s direction. That young man did not dare to trust himself to look

at her. “It is quite plain,” continued the General, “that the court has

been acting under an error. The President of the Confederacy is,

therefore, compelled to disapprove the finding, and it is set aside. He

happened to be with the Secretary when the finding came in.”

Arrelsford made one last desperate effort.

“General Randolph,” he said, and, to do him justice, he did not lack

courage, “this was put in my hands, and——”

General Randolph laughed.

“I take it out of your hands,” he said curtly. “Report back to the War

Office, or the Secret Service Office, with my compliments, and——”

“But there are other charges upon which he could be tried,” persisted

Arrelsford. “He is a spy anyway, and——”

“I believe I gave you your orders, Mr. Arrelsford,” interrupted the

General, with suspicious politeness.

“But hadn’t I better wait and see——”

“By God, sir,” thundered Randolph, “do I have to explain my orders to

the whole Secret Service of the Confederacy? Don’t wait to see anything.

Go at once, or I will have you escorted by a file of soldiers.”

Arrelsford would have defied the General if there had been the least use

in the world in doing it, but the game was clearly up for the present.

He would try to arrange to have Thorne rearrested and tried as a spy

later. Now he could do nothing. He walked out of the room, pride

enabling him to keep up a brave front, but with disappointment and

resentment raging in his heart. He did not realise that his power over

Thorne had been withdrawn. In the great game that they had played, he

had lost at all points. They all watched him go, not a single one in the

room with sympathy, or even pity.

“Now, Sergeant,” said the General, as they heard the heavy hall door

close; “I want to speak to the prisoner.”

“Order arms!” cried the Sergeant. “Parade rest!” As the squad assumed

these positions in obedience to his commands, the Sergeant continued,

“Fall out the prisoner.”

Thorne stepped forward one pace from the ranks, and saluted the General.

He kept his eyes fixed upon that gentleman, and it was only the

throbbing of his heart that made him aware that Edith Varney was by his

side. She bent her head toward him; he felt her warm breath against his

cheek as she whispered:

“Oh! Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you sent it, I thought you——”

“Miss Varney!” exclaimed the General in surprise.

But Edith threw maidenly reserve to the winds. The suddenness of the

revelation overwhelmed her.

“There is nothing against him, General Randolph, now; is there? He

didn’t send it. There’s nothing to try him for!” she said.

General Randolph smiled grimly at her.

“You are very much mistaken, Miss Varney,” he answered. “The fact of his

being caught in our lines without his proper uniform is enough to hang

him in ten minutes.”

Edith caught her heart with her hand with a sharp exclamation, but

General Randolph had turned to speak to the prisoner.

“Captain Thorne,” he said, “or Lewis Dumont, if that is your name; the

President is fully informed regarding the circumstances of your case,

and I needn’t say that we look upon you as a cursed dangerous character.

There isn’t any doubt whatever that you ought to be shot right now, but,

considering the damned peculiarity of your behaviour, and that you

refused to send out that despatch when you might have done so, we’ve

decided to keep you out of mischief some other way. You will be held a

prisoner of war.”

Captain Thorne was almost too dazed to realise the purport of the

decree. He mechanically saluted, and from his lips broke a murmured,

“Thank you, sir.”

The General looked at him severely, and then, seeing Edith Varney,

turned away and engaged in conversation with his staff. His intention

was obvious, and Edith immediately embraced the opportunity.

“Oh!” she said; “that isn’t nearly so bad as death,” and before them all

she stretched out her hand to him.

“No?” queried Thorne in a low voice.

“No,” she said, forcing herself to look at him. “After a while

perhaps—some time——”

“Oh!” said Thorne. “Some time? If it’s some time, that’s enough.”

Mrs. Varney, having succeeded in getting Howard quiet and composed, had

been in the room since the advent of General Randolph.

“Mamma,” said Edith, “won’t you speak to him, too?”

Mrs. Varney approached him, but Wilfred was quicker.

“I would like to shake hands with you,” he said, with boyish enthusiasm.

“What, again?” said Thorne, smiling. “All right.” He stretched out his

hand. “Go ahead.”

“And so would I,” said Caroline, following the lead of her boy lover.

“Don’t be afraid now,” said Wilfred. “Everything will be all right. They

will give you a parole, and——”

“A parole!” said Caroline. “Goodness gracious, they will give you

hundreds of them, I am sure.”

But General Randolph turned once more.

“One moment, please,” said the officer. As he came forward, the others

fell back. Only Edith Varney kept her place close by Thorne’s side.

“There is only one reason on earth why the President has set aside a

certain verdict of death. You held up that false order and made a turn

in our favor. You are not to be tried as a spy, but held as a prisoner

of war. We expect you to make that turn complete and enter our service.”

“Never,” replied Thorne instantly. “That’s impossible, sir.”

“You can give us your answer later,” said the General.

“You have it now.”

“You will be kept in close confinement until you come to our terms,”

continued the older officer.

“You make me a prisoner for life, then.”

“You will see it in another light before many days, and it wouldn’t

surprise me if Miss Varney had something to do with a change in your

views.”

“You are mistaken, General Randolph,” quickly interposed Edith. “I think

he is perfectly right.”

“Oh, very well,” said the General, smiling a little. “We will see what a

little prison life will do. Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have turned the prisoner over to Major Whitfield. He requests you to

take the prisoner to his office, where he’ll take charge of him.”

“Very good, sir,” answered the Sergeant.

“What is it?” whispered Thorne to Edith. “Love and good-bye?”

“No,” answered the girl; “only the first.” She stopped and looked up at

him, her face flushed, her heart throbbing, her eyes shining gloriously.

“And that every day, every hour, every minute, until we meet again.”

“Thank God,” whispered Thorne. “Until we meet again.”

“Attention!” cried the Sergeant. “Carry arms! Left face! Fall in the

prisoner! Forward—March!”

AFTERWORD

And so the great adventure is over, the story is told, and the play is

played. It is hard to tell who lost and who won. It made little

difference in the end that Marston’s Division had not been withdrawn,

and that the attack on Cemetery Hill had failed. It made little

difference in the end that Arrelsford had been thwarted in his attempts

to wreak his vengeance upon Thorne. It made little difference in the end

that Thorne refused to enter the service of the Confederacy, preferring

imprisonment for life. For the days of that Confederacy were numbered.

It was even then tottering on the verge of its grave, in spite of the

brave front it kept up.

Three days after the events of that night, and Richmond had fallen, and

presently the last of the Confederate defenders halted at Appomattox.

The Stars and Bars were hauled down for the last time. The Army was

disbanded. The prisoners were released. There was a quiet wedding in the

old house. Howard, happily recovering from his wounds, was present.

General Varney himself gave away the bride—reluctantly, to be sure, yet

he did it. Wilfred took the place of the brother of Captain Thorne—to

continue to call him by the name he had assumed—and acted as the best

man. To whom should be given the coveted privilege of attending the

bride but to Miss Caroline Mitford! And Miss Kittridge and the few other

guests, including General Randolph, saw in the younger couple

indications that when a few more years had made it suitable, the two who

played the second part on this interesting occasion would be principals

themselves.

There was much opposition, of course, to the wedding of Captain Thorne

and Edith Varney, and many bitter things were said, but there was no

restraining the young people. They had lived and suffered, they had

almost died together. The years of peace and harmony and friendship that

came to the sections at last, and the present happiness that was theirs

immediately, convinced even the most obdurate that what they had done

was exactly right.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TITLES SELECTED FROM

GROSSET & DUNLAP’S LIST

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.

THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS. By Meredith Nicholson. Illustrated by C.

Coles Phillips and Reginald Birch.

Seven suitors vie with each other for the love of a beautiful girl, and

she subjects them to a test that is full of mystery, magic and sheer

amusement.

THE MAGNET. By Henry C. Rowland. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.

The story of a remarkable courtship involving three pretty girls on a

yacht, a poet-lover in pursuit, and a mix-up in the names of the girls.

THE TURN OF THE ROAD. By Eugenia Brooks Frothingham.

A beautiful young opera singer chooses professional success instead of

love, but comes to a place in life where the call of the heart is

stronger than worldly success.

SCOTTIE AND HIS LADY. By Margaret Morse. Illustrated by Harold M. Brett.

A young girl whose affections have been blighted is presented with a

Scotch Collie to divert her mind, and the roving adventures of her pet

lead the young mistress into another romance.

SHEILA VEDDER. By Amelia E. Barr. Frontispiece by Harrison Fisher.

A very beautiful romance of the Shetland Islands, with a handsome,

strong willed hero and a lovely girl of Gaelic blood as heroine. A

sequel to “Jan Vedder’s Wife.”

JOHN WARD, PREACHER. By Margaret Deland.

The first big success of this much loved American novelist. It is a

powerful portrayal of a young clergyman’s attempt to win his beautiful

wife to his own narrow creed.

THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT. By Robert W. Service. Illustrated by Maynard

Dixon.

One of the best stories of “Vagabondia” ever written, and one of the

most accurate and picturesque of the stampede of gold seekers to the

Yukon. The love story embedded in the narrative is strikingly original.

Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction

Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TITLES SELECTED FROM

GROSSET & DUNLAP’S LIST

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.

A CERTAIN RICH MAN. By William Allen White.

A vivid, startling portrayal of one man’s financial greed, its wide

spreading power, its action in Wall Street, and its effect on the three

women most intimately in his life. A splendid, entertaining American

novel.

IN OUR TOWN. By William Allen White. Illustrated by F. R. Gruger and W.

Glackens.

Made up of the observations of a keen newspaper editor, involving the

town millionaire, the smart set, the literary set, the bohemian set, and

many others. All humorously related and sure to hold the attention.

NATHAN BURKE. By Mary S. Watts.

The story of an ambitious, backwoods Ohio boy who rose to prominence.

Everyday humor of American rustic life permeates the book.

THE HIGH HAND. By Jacques Futrelle. Illustrated by Will Grefe.

A splendid story of the political game, with a son of the soil on the

one side, and a “kid glove” politician on the other. A pretty girl,

interested in both men, is the chief figure.

THE BACKWOODSMEN. By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated.

Realistic stories of men and women living midst the savage beauty of the

wilderness. Human nature at its best and worst is well portrayed.

YELLOWSTONE NIGHTS. By Herbert Quick.

A jolly company of six artists, writers and other clever folks take a

trip through the National Park, and tell stories around camp fire at

night. Brilliantly clever and original.

THE PROFESSOR’S MYSTERY. By Wells Hastings and Brian Hooker. Illustrated

by Hanson Booth.

A young college professor, missing his steamer for Europe, has a

romantic meeting with a pretty girl, escorts her home, and is enveloped

in a big mystery.

Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction

Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TITLES SELECTED FROM

GROSSET & DUNLAP’S LIST

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.

THE SECOND WIFE. By Thompson Buchanan. Illustrated by W. W. Fawcett.

Harrison Fisher wrapper printed in four colors and gold.

An intensely interesting story of a marital complication in a wealthy

New York family involving the happiness of a beautiful young girl.

TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY. By Grace Miller White. Illustrated by Howard

Chandler Christy.

An amazingly vivid picture of low class life in a New York college town,

with a heroine beautiful and noble, who makes a great sacrifice for

love.

FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING. By Grace Miller White. Frontispiece and

wrapper in colors by Penrhyn Stanlaws.

Another story of “the storm country.” Two beautiful children are

kidnapped from a wealthy home and appear many years after showing the

effects of a deep, malicious scheme behind their disappearance.

THE LIGHTED MATCH. By Charles Neville Buck. Illustrated by R. F.

Schabelitz.

A lovely princess travels incognito through the States and falls in love

with an American man. There are ties that bind her to someone in her own

home, and the great plot revolves round her efforts to work her way out.

MAUD BAXTER. By C. C. Hotchkiss. Illustrated by Will Grefe.

A romance both daring and delightful, involving an American girl and a

young man who had been impressed into English service during the

Revolution.

THE HIGHWAYMAN. By Guy Rawlence. Illustrated by Will Grefe.

A French beauty of mysterious antecedents wins the love of an Englishman

of title. Developments of a startling character and a clever untangling

of affairs hold the reader’s interest.

THE PURPLE STOCKINGS. By Edward Salisbury Field. Illustrated in colors;

marginal illustrations.

A young New York business man, his pretty sweetheart, his sentimental

stenographer, and his fashionable sister are all mixed up in a

misunderstanding that surpasses anything in the way of comedy in years.

A story with a laugh on every page.

Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction

Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Master’s Violin

By MYRTLE REED

[Illustration: small image of book cover]

A Love Story with a musical atmosphere. A picturesque, old German

virtuoso is the reverent possessor of a genuine Cremona. He consents to

take as his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an aptitude for

technique, but not the soul of the artist. The youth has led the happy,

careless life of a modern, well-to-do young American, and he cannot,

with his meagre past, express the love, the longing, the passion and the

tragedies of life and its happy phases as can the master who has lived

life in all its fulness. But a girl comes into his existence, a

beautiful bit of human driftwood that his aunt had taken into her heart

and home; and through his passionate love for her, he learns the lessons

that life has to give—and his soul awakens.

Founded on a fact well known among artists, but not often recognized or

discussed.

---------------------

If you have not read “Lavender and Old Lace” by the same author, you

have a double pleasure in store—for these two books show Myrtle Reed in

her most delightful, fascinating vein—indeed they may be considered as

masterpieces of compelling interest.

Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Prodigal Judge

By VAUGHAN KESTER

This great novel—probably the most popular book in this country

to-day—is as human as a story from the pen of that great master of

“immortal laughter and immortal tears,” Charles Dickens.

The Prodigal Judge is a shabby outcast, a tavern hanger-on, a genial

wayfarer who tarries longest where the inn is most hospitable, yet with

that suavity, that distinctive politeness and that saving grace of humor

peculiar to the American man. He has his own code of morals—very

exalted ones—but honors them in the breach rather than in the

observance.

Clinging to the Judge closer than a brother, is Solomon

Mahaffy—fallible and failing like the rest of us, but with a sublime

capacity for friendship; and closer still, perhaps, clings little

Hannibal, a boy about whose parentage nothing is known until the end of

the story. Hannibal is charmed into tolerance of the Judge’s picturesque

vices, while Miss Betty, lovely and capricious, is charmed into placing

all her affairs, both material and sentimental, in the hands of this

delightful old vagabond.

The Judge will be a fixed star in the firmament of fictional characters

as surely as David Harum or Col. Sellers. He is a source of infinite

delight, while this story of Mr. Kester’s is one of the finest examples

of American literary craftmanship.

Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction

Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York

------------------------------------------------------------------------

A FEW OF

GROSSET & DUNLAP’S

Great Books at Little Prices

WHEN A MAN MARRIES. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. Illustrated by Harrison

Fisher and Mayo Bunker.

A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that a visit

is due from his Aunt Selina, an elderly lady having ideas about things

quite apart from the Bohemian set in which her nephew is a shining

light. The way in which matters are temporarily adjusted forms the motif

of the story.

A farcical extravaganza, dramatized under the title of “Seven Days.”

THE FASHIONABLE ADVENTURES OF JOSHUA CRAIG. By David Graham Phillips.

Illustrated.

A young westerner, uncouth and unconventional, appears in political and

social life in Washington. He attains power in politics, and a young

woman of the exclusive set becomes his wife, undertaking his education

in social amenities.

“DOC.” GORDON. By Mary E. Wilkins-Freeman. Illustrated by Frank T.

Merrill.

Against the familiar background of American town life, the author

portrays a group of people strangely involved in a mystery. “Doc.”

Gordon, the one physician of the place, Dr. Elliot, his assistant, a

beautiful woman and her altogether charming daughter are all involved in

the plot. A novel of great interest.

HOLY ORDERS. By Marie Corelli.

A dramatic story, in which is pictured a clergyman in touch with society

people, stage favorites, simple village folk, powerful financiers and

others, each presenting vital problems to this man “in holy

orders”—problems that we are now struggling with in America.

KATRINE. By Elinor Macartney Lane. With frontispiece.

Katrine, the heroine of this story, is a lovely Irish girl, of lowly

birth, but gifted with a beautiful voice.

The narrative is based on the facts of an actual singer’s career, and

the viewpoint throughout is a most exalted one.

THE FORTUNES OF FIFI. By Molly Elliot Seawell. Illustrated by T. de

Thulstrup.

A story of life in France at the time of the first Napoleon. Fifi, a

glad, mad little actress of eighteen, is the star performer in a third

rate Parisian theatre. A story as dainty as a Watteau painting.

SHE THAT HESITATES. By Harris Dickson. Illustrated by C. W. Relyea.

The scene of this dashing romance shifts from Dresden to St. Petersburg

in the reign of Peter the Great, and then to New Orleans.

The hero is a French Soldier of Fortune, and the princess, who

hesitates—but you must read the story to know how she that hesitates

may be lost and yet saved.

Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York

------------------------------------------------------------------------

A FEW OF

GROSSET & DUNLAP’S

Great Books at Little Prices

CY WHITTAKER’S PLACE. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Illustrated by Wallace

Morgan.

A Cape Cod story describing the amusing efforts of an elderly bachelor

and his two cronies to rear and educate a little girl. Full of honest

fun—a rural drama.

THE FORGE IN THE FOREST. By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated by H.

Sandham.

A story of the conflict in Acadia after its conquest by the British. A

dramatic picture that lives and shines with the indefinable charm of

poetic romance.

A SISTER TO EVANGELINE. By Charles G. D. Roberts. Illustrated by E.

McConnell.

Being the story of Yvonne de Lamourie, and how she went into exile with

the villagers of Grand Pré. Swift action, fresh atmosphere, wholesome

purity, deep passion and searching analysis characterize this strong

novel.

THE OPENED SHUTTERS. By Clara Louise Burnham. Frontispiece by Harrison

Fisher.

A summer haunt on an island in Casco Bay is the background for this

romance. A beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize,

by her new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the

blessed sunlight of joy by casting aside vanity and self love. A

delicately humorous work with a lofty motive underlying it all.

THE RIGHT PRINCESS. By Clara Louise Burnham.

An amusing story, opening at a fashionable Long Island resort, where a

stately Englishwoman employs a forcible New England housekeeper to serve

in her interesting home. How types so widely apart react on each others’

lives, all to ultimate good, makes a story both humorous and rich in

sentiment.

THE LEAVEN OF LOVE. By Clara Louise Burnham. Frontispiece by Harrison

Fisher.

At a Southern California resort a world-weary woman, young and beautiful

but disillusioned, meets a girl who has learned the art of living—of

tasting life in all its richness, opulence and joy. The story hinges

upon the change wrought in the soul of the blasè woman by this glimpse

into a cheery life.

Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York

------------------------------------------------------------------------

B. M. Bower’s Novels

Thrilling Western Romances

Large 12 mos. Handsomely bound in cloth. Illustrated

CHIP, OF THE FLYING U

A breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of Chip and Delia

Whitman are charmingly and humorously told. Chip’s jealousy of Dr. Cecil

Grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is very

amusing. A clever, realistic story of the American Cow-puncher.

THE HAPPY FAMILY

A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen

jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. Foremost amongst them, we find

Ananias Green, known as Andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively

and exciting adventures.

HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT

A realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of Easterners

who exchange a cottage at Newport for the rough homeliness of a Montana

ranch-house. The merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating Beatrice, and

the effusive Sir Redmond, become living, breathing personalities.

THE RANGE DWELLERS

Here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. Spirited

action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and Juliet

courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull

page.

THE LURE OF DIM TRAILS

A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author, among the

cowboys of the West, in search of “local color” for a new novel. “Bud”

Thurston learns many a lesson while following “the lure of the dim

trails” but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love.

THE LONESOME TRAIL

“Weary” Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional city

life palls on him. A little branch of sage brush, pungent with the

atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown

eyes soon compel his return. A wholesome love story.

THE LONG SHADOW

A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a

mountain ranch. Its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of

life fearlessly and like men. It is a fine love story from start to

finish.

Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction.

Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York