VIII.

Throwing over his shoulders the cape of his army overcoat, Major Abbot

hastens from his room in the direction of the little gallery or veranda

at the side of the house. Evening is just approaching, and the lights

are beginning to twinkle on the broad avenue below. He has not yet had

time to determine upon his course of conduct. If, as he begins to

suspect, it is Bessie Warren who received all those guileful letters,

his will be a most difficult part to play. He longs to speak with her as

well as to see her, but at this moment he knows not what may be expected

of him, and, rather than have to inflict mortification or pain upon so

sweet a girl, he is almost ready to wish that it had been his privilege

to write to her. The fact that her father was so overcome at his denial,

the fact that she fainted at sight of him, the fact that her first words

on reviving were to the effect that her father had told her Paul Abbot

was dead--all seemed to point to the conclusion that she had received

love-letters, and that she had become deeply interested in her unseen

correspondent. It would be no difficult matter to act the lover, and

endorse anything these letters might have said to such a girl, thinks

Abbot, as he hastens along the carpeted corridor, but then there is his

letter to Viva; there is the fact that he has virtually declined to

release her. It is this thought that suddenly "gives him pause," and, at

the very moment that he comes to the doorway leading to the veranda,

causes him to stop short and reflect.

There is a little sitting-room opening off this hallway. One or two

couples are chatting and gossiping therein, but Abbot steps past them to

the window and gazes out. As he expected, there is a view of one end of

the veranda, and there she stands, looking far out into the gathering

night.

A sweeter, lovelier face one seldom sees; so delicate and refined in

every feature, so gentle and trusting in its expression. Her deep

mourning seems only to enhance her fragile beauty, and to render more

observable the grace of her slender form. She leans against the iron

trellis-work, and one slim white hand sweeps back the sunny hair that

is playing about her temple. Her thoughts are not so very far away. He

is standing in the shadow of a curtained niche in a room whose light

comes mainly from the flickering coal-fire in the grate, for the October

evening is chill. She stands where the light from the big lamps at the

corner is sufficient to plainly show her every look and gesture. Abbot

marks that twice or thrice, as footsteps are heard in the hall, she

glances quickly towards the doorway; then that a shade of disappointment

gathers on her brow as no one comes. Then, once or twice, timidly and

furtively, she casts shy, quick glances aloft and towards the front of

the building. It requires little calculation to tell Major Abbot that

those glances are towards the window of his room. Then can it be that

she is there, waiting him, impatient of his coming?

Whether or no, this is no place for him. He has no business here spying

upon her. He has had his look; has seen again the sweet face that so

fascinated him. Now, though he could gaze indefinitely, he feels that he

should either go forth and meet her openly or, perhaps better, retire

and avoid her entirely. Before he can summon courage to go he turns for

one last look, and his course is decided for him.

A footstep, somewhat slow, either from a disposition to saunter on the

part of the promenader or possible languor and weakness, is coming along

the hallway. She hears it, too, and he sees how her white hands clasp

the rail of the balcony, and how she turns her bonnie head to listen.

Nearer it comes; he cannot see who approaches, because that would

involve his stepping back and losing sight of her; and as it nears the

doorway he marks her eager, tremulous pose, and can almost see the

beating of her heart. She has not turned fully towards the hall--just

partially, as though a sidelong glance were all she dared give even in

her joyous eagerness. Then a form suddenly darkens the portal, and just

as suddenly a shadow of keen disappointment clouds her face. She turns

abruptly, and once more gazes wistfully down the street.

The next thing Abbot sees is that the man is at her side; that he has

accosted her; that she is startled and annoyed; and that although in

totally different garb, her caller is no less a person than the

secret-service official who visited him that morning. What on earth can

that mean?

Whatever the conversation, it is very brief. Obedient to some suggestion

or request, though not without one more quick glance at his window,

Abbot sees her turn and enter the house. Quickly she passes the doorway

and speeds along the hall. Regardless of the opinions and probable

remarks of the gossipers in the sitting-room, Major Abbot hastens to the

entrance and gazes after her until the graceful form is out of sight.

Then he turns and confronts the sauntering detective--

"I did not know you knew Miss Warren," he says.

"I don't," is the answer. "Neither do you, do you?"

"Well, we never met before yesterday, but--"

"You never wrote to her, did you, or to her father?"

"Never, and yet I think there is a matter connected with it all that

will require explanation."

"So do I. One of the worst points against the old gentleman is that very

bad break he made in claiming that you had been a constant correspondent

of his and of his daughter's."

"_One_ of the worst! Why, what is he accused of?"

"Being a rebel spy--not to put too fine a point upon it."

Abbot stands aghast a moment.

"Why, man, it's simply impossible! I tell you, you're all wrong."

"Wish you'd tell my chief that," answers the man, impassively. "I don't

like the thing a particle. They've got points up at the office that I

know nothing about, and, probably, have more yet, now; for the package

of papers was found upon him just as described from Frederick."

"What papers?"

"Don't know. They've taken them up to the office. That's what makes the

case rather weak in my eyes; no man would carry a packet of implicating

papers in the pocket of his overcoat all this time. Such a package was

handed to him as he left the tavern there by the landlord's wife, and

she got it from the rebel spy who escaped back across the Potomac the

next morning. He's the man your Colonel Putnam so nearly captured.

Doctor Warren broke down on the back trip, it seems, and was delirious

here for some days; but even then I should think he would hardly have

kept these papers in an overcoat pocket, unless they were totally

forgotten, and _that_ would look vastly like innocence of their

contents, which is what he claimed."

"Do you mean that he knows it? Has he been accused?" asks Abbot.

"Certainly. That's what I came down here for; he wanted his daughter. He

is perfectly rational and on the mend now, and as the physicians said he

would be able to travel in a day or two, it was decided best to nail

him. There are scores of people hereabouts who'll stand watching better

than this old doctor, to my thinking; but we are like you soldiers, and

have our orders."

"Was my father up there when he was notified of his arrest," asks Abbot.

"No; Mr. Abbot has gone over to Senator Wilson's. He was met by a

messenger while standing in the office a while ago."

The major tugs his mustache in nervous perplexity a moment. He needs to

see the doctor. He cannot rest satisfied now until he has called upon

him, assured him of his sympathy, his faith in his innocence, and his

desire to be of service. More than that, he longs to tell him that he

believes it in his power to explain the whole complication. More and

more it is dawning upon him that he has had an arch-enemy at work in

this missing Hollins, and that his villainy has involved them all.

"Can I see Dr. Warren?" he suddenly asks.

"I don't know. I am not directly in charge, but I will ask Hallett, who

is up at the room now."

"Do; and come to my room and let me know as soon as you can."

In less than five minutes the officer is down at his door.

"I declare I wish you _would_ come up. It seems more than ever to me

that there's a blunder somewhere. The old man takes it mighty hard that

he should be looked upon as a spy by the government he has suffered so

much for. He says his only son was killed; captain in a New York

regiment."

"Yes, and I believe it. I knew him at college."

"Well, if that don't beat all! And now that pretty girl is all he has

left, and she's breaking her heart because she don't know how to comfort

him."

"Come on," says Abbot. "I know the way."

And, for a lame man, he manages to make marvellous time through the

hallway and up that little flight of stairs. The room door is open as

before. A man is pacing restlessly up and down the hall. There is a

sound of sobbing from within, and, never stopping to knock, Paul Abbot

throws off his cloak and enters.

She is bending over the bedside, mingling entreaty and soothing words

with her tears; striving to induce her raging old father to lay himself

down and take the medicine that the panic-stricken nurse is vainly

offering. The doctor seems to have but one thought--wrath and

indignation that he, the father of a son who died so gallantly, should

have been accused of so vile a crime; he has but one desire, to rise and

dress, and confront his accusers. If ever man needed the strong arm of a

son to rest on at this moment, it is poor old Warren. If ever woman

needed the aid and presence of a gallant lover, it is this sweet,

half-distracted Bessie; and if ever man looked thoroughly fit to fill

all requirements, it is the self-same young major of staff who comes

striding in and grasping the situation with a soldier's glance.

Heaven! How her eyes light and beam at sight of him! How even through

her tears, the flush of hope and joy springs to her cheek. How eagerly,

trustfully, she turns to him, as though knowing all must now be well.

"Oh, papa! here is Mr. Abbot," she exclaims, and says it as though she

felt that nothing more could ever be needed.

He steps between her and the staring eyes of the old gentleman; bends

quickly down over him.

"Yes, doctor. Paul Abbot, whom you thought killed," and he gives him a

significant glance; a glance that warns him to say no word that might

undeceive her. "I have just had news of this extraordinary charge. I've

come to you, quick as legs can carry me, to tell you that you are to lie

perfectly still, and rest this burden with me. Don't stir; don't worry;

don't say one word. I'm going straight to the provost-marshal's to tell

them what I know, and explain away this whole thing. A most

extraordinary piece of scoundrelism is at the bottom of it all, but I am

beginning to understand it, fully. Doctor, will you trust me? Will you

let me try and be Guthrie to you to-night; and promise me to lie still

here until I come back from the provost-marshal's?"

"Do, father!" implores Bessie, bending over him, too.

There is a look of utter bewilderment in the doctor's haggard face, but

he says no word. For a moment he gazes from one to the other, then drops

back upon the pillow, his eyes fixed on Abbot's face.

"I am all unstrung, weak as a child," he murmurs; "I cannot understand;

but do as you will."

There are voices in the hall; the clink of spurs and sabre; and a

cavalry orderly makes his appearance at the door.

"I was to give this to Major Abbot, instantly," he says, saluting and

holding forth an envelope. Abbot takes and tears it open. The message is

brief enough, but full of meaning:

"Your presence necessary here at once to explain the papers found on

Doctor Warren. Looks like a case of mistaken identity."

It is signed by the young officer whom he met on the occasion of his

last visit.

[Illustration: "_A cavalry orderly makes his appearance at the door_"]

"I thought so, doctor!" he says, triumphantly. "They are shaky already,

and send for me to come. Depend upon it I'll bring you glad tidings in

less than no time, and have an end to these mysteries. Now try and

rest."

Then he turns to her. Can he ever forget the trust, the radiance, the

restfulness in the shy, sudden look she gives him? His heart bounds with

the sight; his pulse throbs hard as he holds forth his hand, and, for

the first time, her soft warm palm is clasped in his.

"Don't worry one bit, Miss Bessie; we'll have this matter straightened

out at once."

Then there is a pressure he cannot resist; a shy, momentary answer he

cannot mistake; and, with his veins all thrilling, Paul Abbot goes forth

upon his mission, leaving her looking after him with eyes that plainly

say, "There walks a demi-god."

At the office he is promptly ushered into the presence of three or four

men, two of them in uniform.

"Major Abbot, here is a packet of letters in a lady's hand, addressed to

you. They were found on Doctor Warren, in the very pocket where he

placed the package that was given him at Frederick. Have you lost such,

or can you account for them?"

"I can account for them readily," answers Abbot, promptly. "They are

mine, written by Miss Warren, and were stolen from me, as I believe; was

there no explanation or address?"

"Nothing but this," is the answer, and the speaker holds forth a wrapper

inside which is written these words:

"For your daughter. Ruined though I am, I can never forgive myself for

the fearful wrong I have done her. Tell her it was all a lie. He never

wrote, and she will never know the man who did."

Abbot stands staring at the paper, his hands clinching, his mouth

setting hard. No word is spoken for a moment. Then, in answer to a

courteous question, he looks up.

"It is as I thought. His villainy has involved others besides me. Doctor

Warren is no more spy than I am. This writing is that d----d scoundrel

Hollins's, who deserted from our regiment."