“No, no, Harry,” was the whispered reply, and “Surrender, curse you!” the shouted answer. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he pleaded.
“I don’t care,” muttered Dumont. “Let me have it.”
His hands slipped down from Thorne’s shoulders and grasped the butt of the revolver. The two grappled for it fiercely, but the struggle was beginning to tell on Thorne, who was not yet in full possession of his physical vitality. His long illness had sapped his strength.
“Don’t, don’t, for God’s sake!” he whispered, and then shouted desperately, “Here’s your man, Corporal, what’s the matter with you?”
“Give me that gun,” said Dumont, and in spite of himself his voice rose again. There was nothing suspicious in the words, it was what he might have said had the battle been a real one; as he spoke by a more violent effort he wrenched the weapon from the holster and away from Thorne’s detaining hand. The latter sought desperately to repossess himself of it.
“Look out, Harry!” he implored
“Look out, Harry!” he implored
“Look out, Harry! You’ll hurt yourself,” he implored, but the next moment by a superhuman effort Dumont threw him back. As Thorne staggered, Dumont turned the pistol on himself. Recovering himself with incredible swiftness, Thorne leaped at his brother, and the two figures went down together with a crash in the midst of which rang out the sharp report of the heavy service weapon. Instead of shooting himself harmlessly in the side, in the struggle Dumont had unfortunately shot himself through the lung.
Not at first comprehending exactly what had happened, Thorne rose to his feet, took the revolver from the other’s hand, and stood over the body of his mortally wounded brother, the awful anguish of his heart in his face. Fortunately, they were near the far end of the room, next the wall, and no one could see the look in Thorne’s eyes or the distortion of his features in his horror.
“Harry!” he whispered. “My God, you have shot yourself!”
But Henry Dumont was past speaking. He simply smiled at his brother, and closed his eyes. The next instant the room was filled with light and sound. From every window and door people poured in; the soldiers from the porches, from the hall, Mrs. Varney, Arrelsford and Edith; from the other side of the hall a hubbub of screams and cries rose from behind the locked door where the sewing women sat. Martha brought up the rear with lights, which Arrelsford took from her and set on the table. The room was again brightly illuminated.
As they crowded through the various entrances, their eyes fell upon Thorne. He was leaning nonchalantly against the table, his revolver in his hand, a look of absolute indifference upon his face. His acting was superb had they but known it. He could not betray himself now and make vain his brother’s sublime act of self-sacrifice for the cause. There was a tumult of shouts and sudden cries:
“Where is he? What has he done? This way now!”
Most of those who entered had eyes only for the man lying upon the floor, blood welling darkly through his grey shirt exposed by the opening of his coat which had been torn apart in the struggle. Three people had eyes only for Thorne, the man who hated him, the girl who loved him, and the woman who suspected him. Between the soldiers and these three stood the Corporal of the Guard, representing as it were, the impartial law.
Thorne did not glance once at the girl who loved him, or at the man who hated him, or at the woman who suspected him. He fixed his eyes upon the Corporal of the Guard.
“There’s your prisoner, Corporal,” he said calmly, without a break in his voice, although such anguish possessed him as he had never before experienced and lived through, but his control was absolutely perfect.
And his quiet words and quiet demeanour increased the hate of one man, and the suspicions of one woman, and the love and admiration of the other.
“There’s your prisoner,” he said, slipping his revolver slowly back into its holster. “We had a bit of a struggle and I had to shoot him. Look out for him.”
BOOK IIIWHAT HAPPENED AT TEN O’CLOCK
BOOK IIIWHAT HAPPENED AT TEN O’CLOCK
The War Department Telegraph Office had once been a handsome apartment, one of those old-fashioned, heavily corniced, marble-manteled, low-windowed, double-doored rooms in a public building. It was now in a state of extreme dilapidation, the neglected and forlorn condition somehow being significant of the moribund Confederacy in which practically everything was either dead or dying but the men and women.
A large double door in one corner gave entrance to a corridor. The doors were of handsome mahogany, but they had been kicked and battered until varnish and polish had both disappeared and they looked as dilapidated as the cob-webbed corners and the broken mouldings. On the other side of the room, three long French windows gave entrance to a shallow balcony of cast iron fantastically moulded, which hung against the outer wall. Beyond this the observer peering through the dusty panes could discern the large white pillars of the huge porch which overhung the front of the building. Further away beyond the shadow of the porch were visible the lights of the sleeping town, seen dimly in the bright moonlight.
The handsome furniture which the room had probably once contained, had been long since displaced by the rude telegraph equipment and the heavy plaster cornices and mouldings were sadly marred by telegraph wires which ran down the walls to the tables, rough pine affairs, which carried the instruments. There were two of these tables, each with a telegraph key at either end. One of them stood near the centre of the room, and the other some distance away was backed up against the fine old marble mantel, chipped, battered, ruined like the rest of the room. For the rest, the apartment contained a desk, shelves with the batteries on them, and half a dozen chairs of the commonest and cheapest variety. The floor was bare, dusty, and tobacco stained. The sole remnant of the ancient glory of the room was a large handsome old clock on the wall above the mantel, the hands of which pointed to the hour of ten.
But if the room itself was in a dingy and even dirty condition, the occupants were very much alive. One young man, Lieutenant Allison, sat at the table under the clock, and another, Lieutenant Foray, at the table in the centre of the room. Both were busy sending or receiving messages. The instruments kept up a continuous clicking, heard distinctly above the buzz of conversation which came from half a dozen youngsters, scarcely more than boys, grouped together at the opposite side of the room, waiting to take to the various offices of the Department, or to the several officials of the government, the messages which were constantly being handed out to them by the two military operators.
In the midst of this busy activity there came the noise of drums, faintly at first, but presently growing clearer and louder, while the tramp of many feet sounded in the street below.
“What’s that?” asked one messenger of the other.
“I don’t know,” was the answer, “troops of some kind. I’ll look out and see.”
He stepped to one of the long windows, opened it, and went out on the balcony. The other young fellows clustered at his back or peered through the other windows.
“It’s the Richmond Greys,” said the observer outside.
There was an outburst of exclamations from the room, except from the operators, who had no time to spare from their work.
“Yes, that’s what they are. You can see their uniforms. They must be sending them down to the lines at Petersburg,” said another.
“Well, I don’t believe they would send the Greys out unless there was something going on to-night,” observed a third.
“To-night, why, good heavens, it’s as quiet as a tomb,” broke in a fourth. “I don’t hear a sound from the front.”
“That’s probably what’s worrying them. It is so damn unusual,” returned the first messenger.
“Things have come to a pretty pass if the Grandfathers of the Home Guard have got to go to the front,” remarked another.
“Following in the footsteps of their grandsons,” said the first. “I wish I could go. I hate this business of carrying telegrams and——”
“Messenger here!” cried Lieutenant Foray, folding up a message and inserting it in its envelope.
The nearest youngster detached himself from the group while all of them turned away from the windows, stepped to the side of the officer, and saluted.
“War Department,” said Foray tersely. “Tell the Secretary it’s from General Lee, and here’s a duplicate which you are to give to the President.”
“Very good, sir,” said the messenger, taking the message and turning away.
As he passed out of the door, an orderly entered the room, stepped to the side of Lieutenant Foray, the senior of the two officers on duty, clicked his heels together, and saluted.
“Secretary’s compliments, sir, and he wants to know if there is anything from General Lee,” he said.
“My compliments to the Secretary,” returned the Lieutenant. “I have just sent a message to his office with a duplicate for the President.”
“The President’s with the Cabinet yet, sir,” returned the orderly. “He didn’t go home. The Secretary’s there, too. They want an operator right quick to take down some cipher telegrams.”
Lieutenant Foray looked over to his subordinate.
“Got anything on, Charlie?” he called out.
“Not right now,” answered Lieutenant Allison.
“Well, go over with the orderly to the Cabinet room and take down their ciphers. Hurry back though,” said Foray as Allison slipped on his coat—both officers had been working in their shirt sleeves—“we need you here. We are so short-handed in the office now that I don’t know how we are going to get through to-night. I can’t handle four instruments, and——”
“I will do my best,” said Allison, turning away rapidly.
He bowed as he did so to a little party which at that moment entered the room through the door, obstructing his passage. There were two very spick and span young officers with Miss Caroline Mitford between them, while just behind loomed the ponderous figure of old Martha.
“You wait in the hall right here, Martha; I won’t be long,” said Caroline, pausing a moment to let the others precede her.
The two young men stopped on either side of the door and waited for her.
“Miss Mitford,” said the elder, “this is the Department Telegraph Office.”
“Thank you,” said Caroline, entering the room with only the briefest of acknowledgments of the profound bows of her escorts.
She was evidently very much agitated and troubled over what she was about to attempt. The two young men followed her as she stepped down the long room.
“I am afraid you have gone back on the Army, Miss Mitford,” said one of them pleasantly.
“Gone back on the Army, why?” asked Caroline mystified.
“Seems like we should have a salute as you went by.”
“Oh, yes,” said the girl.
She raised her hand and saluted in a perfunctory and absent-minded manner, then turned away from them. She nodded to the messengers, some of whom she knew. One of them, who knew her best, stepped forward.
“Good-evening, Miss Mitford, could we do anything in the office for you to-night?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,—you can. I want to send a—a telegram.”
The other of the young officers who had escorted her, who had remained silent, now entered the conversation.
“Have you been receiving some bad news, Miss Mitford?” he asked sympathetically.
“Oh, no.”
“Maybe some friend of yours has gone to the front, and——” interposed the first officer.
“Well, supposing he had,” said Caroline, “would you call that bad news?”
“I don’t know as you would exactly like to——”
“Let me tell you,” said Caroline, “as you don’t seem to know, that all my friends have gone to the front.”
There was an emphasis on the pronoun which should have warned the young soldier what was about to occur, but he rushed blindly to his doom.
“I hope not all, Miss Mitford,” he replied.
“Yes, all,” rejoined Caroline, making the “all” very emphatic, “for if they did not they wouldn’t be my friends.”
“But some of us are obliged to stay here to take care of you, you know,” contributed the other young man.
“Well, there are altogether too many of you trying to take care of me,” said Caroline saucily, with some return of her usual lightness, “and you are all discharged.”
“Do you mean that, Miss Mitford?”
“I certainly do.”
“Well, I suppose if we are really discharged, we will have to go,” returned the other.
“Yes,” said his companion regretfully, “but we are mighty sorry to see you in such low spirits.”
“Would you like to put me in real good spirits, you two?” asked Caroline, resolved to read these young dandies who were staying at home a lesson.
“Wouldn’t we!” they both cried together. “There’s nothing we would like better.”
“Well, I will tell you just what to do then,” returned the girl gravely and with deep meaning.
Everybody in the room, with the exception of Lieutenant Foray, was now listening intently.
“Start right out this very night,” said the girl, “and don’t stop till you get to where my real friends are, lying in trenches and ditches and earth-works between us and the Yankee guns.”
“But really, Miss Mitford,” began one, his face flushing at her severe rebuke, “you don’t absolutely mean that.”
“So far as we are concerned,” said one of the messengers, including his companions with a sweep of his hand, “we’d like nothing better, but they won’t let us go, and——”
“I know they won’t,” said Caroline, “but so far as you two gentlemen are concerned, I really mean it. Go and fight the Yankees a few days and lie in ditches a few nights until those uniforms you’ve got on look as if they might have been of some use to somebody. If you are so mighty anxious to do something for me, that is what you can do. It is the only thing I want, it is the only thing anybody wants.”
“Messenger here!” cried Lieutenant Foray as the two young officers, humiliated beyond expression by the taunts of the impudent young maiden, backed away and finally managed to make an ungraceful exit through the open door, followed by the titters of the messengers, who took advantage of the presence of the young girl to indulge in this grave breach of discipline.
“Messenger!” cried Foray impatiently.
“Here, sir,” came the answer.
“Commissary General’s office!” was the injunction with which Foray handed the man the telegram.
He looked up at the same time, and with a great start of surprise caught sight of Caroline at the far end of the long room.
“Lieutenant Foray,” began the girl.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Mitford,” said the operator, scrambling to his feet and making a frantic effort to get into his coat. “I heard some one come in, but I was busy with an important message and didn’t appreciate that——”
“No, never mind, don’t put on your coat,” said Caroline. “I came on business, and——”
“You want to send a telegram?” asked the Lieutenant.
“Yes.”
“I am afraid we can’t do anything for you here, Miss Mitford, this is the War Department Official Telegraph Office, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” said Caroline, “but it is the only way to send it where I want it to go, and I——”
At that moment the clicking of a key called Lieutenant Foray away.
“Excuse me,” he said, stepping quickly to his table.
Miss Mitford, who had never before been in a telegraph office, was very much mystified by the peremptory manner in which the officer had cut her short, but she had nothing to do but wait. Presently the message was transcribed, another messenger was called.
“Over to the Department, quick as you can go. They are waiting for it,” said Foray. “Now, what was it you wanted me to do, Miss Mitford?”
“Just to—to send a telegram,” faltered Caroline.
“It’s private business, is it not?” said Foray.
“Yes, it is strictly private.”
“Then you will have to get an order from——”
“That is what I thought,” said Caroline, “so here it is.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before,” returned Foray, taking the paper. “Oh,—Major Selwin——”
“Yes, he—he’s one of my friends.”
“It’s all right then,” interposed the Lieutenant, who was naturally very businesslike and peremptory.
He pushed a chair to the other side of the table, placed a small sheet of paper on the table in front of her, and shoved the pen and ink conveniently to hand.
“You can write there, Miss Mitford,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Caroline, looking rather ruefully at the tiny piece of paper which had been provided for her.
Paper was a scarce article then, and every scrap was precious. She decided that such a piece was not sufficient for her purposes, and when Lieutenant Foray’s back was turned she took a larger piece of paper of sufficient capacity to contain her important message, to the composition of which she proceeded with much difficulty and many pauses and sighs.
Nobody had any time to devote to Miss Mitford just then, for a perfect rain of messages came and went as she slowly composed her own despatch. Messengers constantly came in while others went out. The lines were evidently busy that night. Finally there came a pause in the despatches coming and going, and Foray remembering her, looked over toward the other end of the table where she sat.
“Is that message of yours ready yet, Miss Mitford?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Caroline, rising and folding it. “Of course you have got to take it.”
“Certainly,” returned the operator smiling. “If it’s to be sent, I have to send it.”
“Well, here it is then,” said the girl, extending the folded paper which Lieutenant Foray took and unceremoniously opened.
“Oh!” exclaimed Caroline, quickly snatching the paper from his hand, “I didn’t tell you you could read it.”
Foray stared at her in amazement.
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“I want you to send it.”
“Well, how am I going to send it if I don’t read it?”
“Do you mean to say that——” began the girl, who had evidently forgotten—if she had ever known—how telegrams were sent.
“I mean to say that I have got to spell out every word on the key. Didn’t you know that?”
“Oh, I did, of course—I—but I had forgotten,” said Caroline, dismayed by this unexpected development.
“Is there any harm in my reading the message that I have to send?”
“Why I wouldn’t have you see it for the world! My gracious!”
“Is it as bad as that, Miss Mitford?” he said laughing.
“Bad! It isn’t bad at all, but I wouldn’t have it get all over town for anything.”
“It will never get out of this office, Miss Mitford,” returned Foray composedly. “We are not allowed to mention anything that goes on in here.”
“You wouldn’t mention it?”
“Certainly not. All sorts of private messages go through here, and——?”
“Do they?”
“Every day. Now if that telegram is important——?”
“Important, well I should think it was. It is the most important——”
“Then I reckon you had better trust it to me,” said Lieutenant Foray.
“Yes,” said Caroline, blushing a vivid crimson, “I reckon I had.”
She handed him the telegram. He opened it, glanced at it, bit his lips to control his emotion, and then his hands reached for the key.
“Oh, stop!” cried Caroline.
Foray looked at her, his eyes full of amusement, his whole body shaking with suppressed laughter, which she was too wrought up to perceive.
“Wait till—I—I don’t want to be here while you spell out every word—I couldn’t stand that.”
Caroline had evidently forgotten that the spelling would be in the Morse Code, and that it would be about as intelligible to her as Sanskrit. The Lieutenant humoured her, and waited while Caroline turned toward the door and summoned Martha to her. She did not leave the room, however, for her way was barred by a young private in a grey uniform. The newcomer looked hastily at her and the old negress, stopped by them, and asked them very respectfully to wait a moment. He then approached Foray, who was impatiently waiting until he could send the message. He saluted him and handed him a written order, and then crossed to the other side of the room. A glance put Foray in possession of the contents of this order. He rose to his feet and approached Caroline still standing by the door.
“Miss Mitford,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand this, but here is an order that has just come from the Secret Service Department directing me to hold up any despatch you may try to send.”
“Hold back my telegram?”
“Yes, Miss Mitford,” and Foray looked very embarrassed as he stared again at the order and then from the young girl to the orderly, “and that isn’t the worst of it.”
“What else is there!” asked the girl, her eyes big with apprehension.
“Why, this man has orders to take back your message with him to the Secret Service Office.”
“Take back my message!” cried Caroline.
“There must be some mistake,” answered Foray, “but that’s what the order says.”
“To whom does it say to take it back?” asked the girl, growing more and more indignant.
“To a Mr. Arrelsford.”
“Do you mean to tell me that that order is for that man to take my despatch back to Mr. Arrelsford?”
“Yes, Miss Mitford,” returned Lieutenant Foray.
“And does it say anything in there about what I am going to do in the meantime?” asked the girl indignantly.
“Nothing.”
“Well, that is too bad,” returned Caroline ominously.
“I am sorry this has occurred, Miss Mitford,” said the Lieutenant earnestly, “but the orders are signed by the head of the Secret Service Department, and you will see that I have no choice——”
“Don’t worry about it, Lieutenant Foray,” said Caroline calmly, “there is no need of your feeling sorry, because it hasn’t occurred, beside that, it is not going to occur. When it does, you can go around being sorry all you like. Have you the faintest idea that I am going to let him take my telegram away with him and show it to the man? Do you suppose——”
She was too indignant to finish her sentence and old Martha valiantly entered the fray.
“No, suh,” she cried, in her deepest and most indignant voice. “You all ain’t gwine to do it, you kin be right suah you ain’t.”
“But what can I do?” persisted Foray, greatly distressed.
“You can hand it back to me, that’s what you can do.”
“Yes, suh, dat’s de vehy best thing you kin do,” said old Martha stoutly, “an’ de soonah you do it de quickah it’ll be done—Ah kin tel you dat right now, suh.”
“But this man has come here with orders for me to——” began Foray, endeavouring to explain.
He realised that there was some mistake somewhere. The girl’s message had nothing whatever to do with military matters, and he quite understood that she would not want this communication read by every Tom, Dick, or Harry in the Secret Service Department. Beside all this, as she stood before him, her face flushed with emotion, she was a sufficiently pretty, a sufficiently pleading figure to make him most anxious and most willing to help her. In addition, the portly figure of old Martha, whose cheeks doubtless would have been flushed with the same feeling had they not been so black, were more than disconcerting.
“This man,” said Caroline, shaking her finger at helpless Private Eddinger, who also found his position most unpleasant, “can go straight back where he came from and report to Mr. Arrelsford that he could not carry out his orders. That’s what he can do.”
Martha, now thoroughly aroused to a sense of the role she was to play, turned and confronted the abashed private.
“Jes’ let him try to tek it. Let him tek it if he wants it so pow’ful bad! Jes let de othah one dere gib it to him—an’ den see him try an’ git out thu dis yeah do’ wid it! Ah wants to see him go by,” she said. “Ah’m jes waitin’ fur de sight ob him gittin’ pas’ dis do’. Dat’s what Ah’s waitin’ fo’. Ah’d lak to know what dey s’pose it was Ah comed around yeah fo’ anyway—dese men wid dese ordahs afussin’ an’——”
“Miss Mitford,” said Foray earnestly, “if I were to give this despatch back to you it would get me in a heap of trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” asked Caroline dubiously.
“I might be put in prison, I might be shot.”
“Do you mean that they would——”
“Sure to do one thing or another.”
“Just for giving it back to me when it is my message?”
“Just for that.”
“Then you will have to keep it, I suppose,” said Caroline faltering.
“Thank you, Miss Mitford.”
“Very well,” said Caroline, “it is understood. You don’t give it back to me, and you can’t give it back to him, so nobody’s disobeying any orders at all. And that’s the way it stands. I reckon I can stay as long as he can.” She stepped to a nearby chair and sat down. “I haven’t very much to do and probably he has.”
“But, Miss Mitford——” began Foray.
“There isn’t any good talking any longer. If you have got any telegraphing to do, you had better do it. I won’t disturb you. But don’t you give it to him.”
Foray stared at her helplessly. What might have resulted, it is impossible to say, for there entered at that opportune moment, Mr. Arrelsford himself, relieving Mr. Foray of the further conduct of the intricate case. His glance took in all the occupants of the room. It was to his own messenger that he first addressed himself.
“Eddinger!”
“Yes, Mr. Arrelsford.”
“Didn’t you get here in time!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why——”
“I beg your pardon,” said Foray, “are you Mr. Arrelsford of the Secret Service Department?”
“Yes. Are you holding back a despatch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t Eddinger bring it to me?”
“Well, you see——” began Foray, hesitating, “Miss Mitford——”
Arrelsford instantly comprehended.
“Eddinger,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Report back to Corporal Matson and tell him to send a surgeon to the prisoner who was wounded at General Varney’s house, if he isn’t dead by this time. Now let me see that despatch,” he continued, as the orderly saluted and ran rapidly from the room.
But again Miss Mitford interposed. She stepped quickly between Arrelsford and Foray, both of whom fell back from her.
“I expect,” she said impudently, “that you think you are going to get my telegram and read it?”
“I certainly intend to do so,” was the curt answer.
“Well, there’s a great disappointment looming up in front of you,” returned Caroline defiantly.
“So!” said Arrelsford, with growing suspicion. “You have been trying to send out something that you don’t want us to see.”
“What if I have, sir.”
“Just this,” said Arrelsford determinedly. “You won’t send it out and I will see it. This is a case——”
“This is a case where nobody is going to read my private writing,” persisted Caroline.
The young girl confronted him with blazing eyes and a mien like a small fury. Arrelsford looked at her with ill-concealed yet somewhat vexatious amusement.
“Lieutenant Foray, you have an order to give me that despatch. Bring it to me at once,” he said.
Although it was quite evident that Foray greatly disliked the rôle he was compelled to play, his orders were plain, he had no option. He stepped slowly toward the Secret Service-Agent, only to be confronted by old Martha, who again interrupted.
“Dat Leftenant kin stay jes whah he is,” said the old negress defiantly.
A struggle with her would have been an unseemly spectacle indeed, thought both men.
“Is that Miss Mitford’s despatch you have in your hand?” asked Arrelsford.
“Yes, sir.”
“Since you can’t hand it to me, read it.”
Caroline turned to him with a gasp of horror. Martha gave way, and Foray stood surprised.
“Read it out! Don’t you hear me?” repeated Arrelsford peremptorily.
“Don’t dare to do such a thing,” cried Caroline, “you have no right to read a private telegram.”
“No, suh! He ain’t got no business to read her lettahs, none whatsomebah!” urged Martha.
“Silence!” roared Arrelsford, his patience at an end. “If either of you interfere any further with the business of this office, I will have you both put under arrest. Read that despatch instantly, Lieutenant Foray.”
The game was up so far as the women were concerned. Caroline’s head sank on Martha’s shoulder and she sobbed passionately, while Lieutenant Foray read the following astonishing and incriminating message.
“‘Forgive me, Wilfred darling, please forgive me and I will help you all I can.’”
It was harmless, as harmless as it was foolish, that message, but it evidently impressed Mr. Arrelsford as containing some deep, some hidden, some sinister meaning.
“That despatch can’t go,” he said shortly.
“That despatch can go,” said Caroline, stopping her sobbing as suddenly as she had begun. “And that despatch will go. I know some one whose orders even you are bound to respect, and some one who will come here with me and see that you do it.”
“It may be,” answered Arrelsford composedly. “I have a good and sufficient reason——”
“Then you will have to show him, I can tell you that, Mr. Arrelsford.”
“I shall be glad to give my reason to my superiors, Miss Mitford, not to you.”
“Then you will have to go around giving them to everybody in Richmond, Mr. Arrelsford,” said the girl, as she swept petulantly through the door, followed by old Martha, both of whom were very much disturbed by what had occurred.
Arrelsford stared after the departing figures with a mixture of amusement, contempt, and annoyance in his glance. So soon as the door had closed behind them he turned to Lieutenant Foray, who was regarding him with ill-concealed aversion.
“Let me have that despatch,” he began in his usual peremptory manner.
“You said you had an order, sir,” returned Foray stubbornly.
“Yes, yes,” replied the Secret Service Agent impatiently, throwing an order on the table, “there it is, don’t waste time.”
But Lieutenant Foray was not satisfied, principally because he did not wish to be. He scrutinised the order carefully, and with great distaste at its contents. It was quite evident that if he could have found a possible pretext for refusing obedience, he would gladly have done so. His sympathies were entirely with Miss Mitford.
“I suppose you are Mr. Benton Arrelsford, all right?” he began deliberately, fingering the paper.
“Certainly I am,” returned Arrelsford haughtily.
“We have to be very careful nowadays,” continued Foray shortly. “But I reckon it’s all right. Here’s the telegram.”
“Did the girl seem nervous or excited when she handed this in?” asked the other, taking the message.
“Do you mean Miss Mitford?” asked Foray reprovingly.
“Certainly, who else?”
“Yes, she did.”
“She was anxious not to have it seen by anybody?”
“Anxious, I should say so. She didn’t even want me to see it.”
“Umph!” said Arrelsford. “I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Foray, that we are on the track of a serious affair and I believe she’s mixed up in it.”
“But that despatch is to young Varney, a mere boy, the General’s son,” urged the Lieutenant.
“I didn’t know he had gone to the front. So much the worse. It’s one of the ugliest affairs we have ever had. I had them put me on it, and I have got it pretty close. We have had some checks but we will end it right here in this office inside of thirty minutes.”
There was a slight tap on the door at this juncture. Arrelsford turned to the door, opened it, and found himself face to face with a soldier, who saluted and stood at attention.
“Well, what is it?”
“The lady’s here, sir,” said the soldier.
“Where is she?” asked Arrelsford.
“Waiting down below at the front entrance.”
“Did she come alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Show her up here at once. I suppose you have a revolver here,” continued the Secret Service Man, turning to Lieutenant Foray, who had listened with much interest.
“Certainly,” answered Foray, “we are always armed in the telegraph office.”
From a drawer in the table he drew forth a revolver which he laid on the top of the table.
“Good,” said Arrelsford, “while I want to handle this thing myself, I may call you. Be ready, that’s all.”
“Very well.”
“Obey any orders you may get, and send out all despatches unless I stop you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you don’t mind, I don’t care to have all these messenger boys coming back here. I will order them to stop in the hall. If you have any messages for them, you can take them out there. I don’t want to have too many people in the room.”
“Very good, sir. Will you give the order to your orderly when he brings up the young lady?”
“Yes.”
Arrelsford stepped to the door, and Foray busied himself with the clicking instruments. After a few minutes’ conversation with the orderly, who had just returned, Arrelsford ushered Edith Varney into the room. With not even a glance at the operator in her intense preoccupation, the girl spoke directly to Arrelsford.
“I—I’ve accepted your invitation, you see.”
“I am greatly obliged to you, Miss Varney,” returned Arrelsford with deferential courtesy. “As a matter of justice to me, it was——”
“I didn’t come to oblige you,” answered Edith, haughtily.
She had never liked Mr. Arrelsford. His addresses had been most unpleasant and unwelcome to her, and now she not only hated him but she loathed him.
“I came here,” she continued, as Arrelsford attempted to speak, “to see that no more——” her voice broke for a moment, “murders are committed here—to satisfy your singular curiosity.”
“Murders!” exclaimed Arrelsford, flushing deeply.
The girl nodded.
“The Union soldier who escaped from prison——” she began.
“Is the man dead?” interrupted Arrelsford.
“The man is dead.”
“It is a curious thing, Miss Varney,” continued the other with cutting emphasis, “that one Yankee prisoner more or less should make so much difference to you, isn’t it? They are dying down in Libby by the hundreds.”
“At least they are not being killed in our houses, in our drawing-rooms, before our very eyes!”
She confronted Arrelsford with a bitterly reproachful glance, before which his eyes for a moment fell, and he was glad indeed to turn to another orderly who had just entered the room.
“Have you kept track of him!” he asked in a low voice.
“He’s coming down the street to the Department now, sir.”
“Where has he been since he left Mrs. Varney’s house?”
“He went to his quarters on Gary Street. We got in the next room and watched him through a transom.”
“What was he doing?”
“Working on some papers or documents.”
“Could you see them? Did you see what they were?”
“They looked like orders from the War Department, sir.”
“He is coming here with forged orders, I suppose.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir.”
“I surmise that his game is to get control of these wires and then send out despatches to the front that will take away a battery or a brigade from some vital point, the vital point indicated by ‘Plan 3.’ That’s where they mean to attack to-night.”
“Looks like it, sir,” agreed the orderly respectfully.
“‘Plan 3,’ that’s where they will hit us,” mused the Secret Service Agent. “Is there a guard in the building?”
“Not inside, sir,” answered the orderly, “there’s a guard in front and sentries around the barracks over in the square.”
“If I shouted, they could hear from this window, couldn’t they?” asked Arrelsford.
“The guard in front could hear you, sir. But the time is getting short. He must be nearly here, you’d better look out, sir.”
Edith Varney had heard enough of the conversation to understand that Thorne was coming. Of course it would never do for him to see her there.
“Where am I to go?” she asked.
“Outside here on the balcony,” said Arrelsford. “There is no closet in the room and it is the only place. I will be with you in a moment.”
“But if he should come to the window?”
“We will step in at the other window. Stay, orderly, see if the window of the Commissary General’s Office, the next room to the left, is open.”
They waited while the orderly went out on the balcony and made his inspection.
“The window of the next room is open, sir,” he reported.
“That’s all I want of you. Report back to Corporal Matson. Tell him to get the body of the prisoner out of the Varney house. He knows where it’s to go.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Mr. Foray,” continued Arrelsford, “whoever comes here you are to keep on with your work and don’t give the slightest sign of my presence to any one on any account. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Foray from the telegraph table in the centre of the room.
He had caught something of the conversation, but he was too good a soldier to ask any questions, beside his business was with the telegraph, not with Mr. Arrelsford.
“Now, Miss Varney,” said the Secret Service Agent, “this way, please.”
He opened the middle window. The girl stepped through, and he was about to follow when he caught sight of a messenger entering the room. Leaving the window, he retraced his steps.
“Where did you come from?” he said abruptly to the young man.
“War Department, sir.”
“Carrying despatches’?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know me, don’t you?”
“I’ve seen you at the office, sir, and——”
“I’m here on Department business,” said Arrelsford. “All you have to do is to keep quiet about it. Weren’t you stopped in the hall?”
“Yes, sir, but I had a despatch from the President that had to be delivered to Lieutenant Foray.”
“Well, it is just as well,” said Arrelsford. “Don’t mention having seen me to anybody under any pretext and stay here. You might be needed. On second thoughts, Foray, let any messenger come in.”
With that Mr. Arrelsford stepped out onto the balcony through the window which he closed after him, and he and Edith disappeared from view.
“Messenger,” said Foray, “step down the hall and tell the private there that by Mr. Arrelsford’s orders, messengers are allowed to come up as they report.”
The room which had been the scene of these various colloquies became silent save for the continuous clicking of the telegraph keys. Presently two messengers came back and took their positions as before.
Hard on their heels entered Captain Thorne. He was in uniform, of course, and a paper was tucked in his belt. He walked rapidly down the room, acknowledged the salutes of the messengers, and stopped before the table. His quick scrutiny of the room as he advanced had shown him that there was no one present except the messengers and Lieutenant Foray. Foray glanced up, nodded, finished taking the despatch which was on the wires at the time, wrote it out, put it in its envelope, and then rose to his feet and saluted.
“Captain Thorne,” he said.
“Lieutenant Foray,” replied Thorne, taking the order from his belt and handing it to the operator.
“Order from the Department?” asked Foray.
“I believe so,” answered Thorne briefly.
Lieutenant Foray opened it and read it.
“They want me to take a cipher despatch over to the President’s house,” he said as he finished.
“Yes,” said Thorne, moving to the vacant place at the table. He pulled the chair back a little, tossed his hat on the other table, and otherwise made himself at home.
“I am ordered to stay here until you get back,” he began casually, shoving the paper aside and stretching his hand toward the key.
“That’s an odd thing, Captain,” began Lieutenant Foray dubiously. “I understood that the President was meeting with the Cabinet. In fact, Lieutenant Allison went over there to take some code work a moment ago. He must have gone home, I reckon.”
“Looks like it,” said Thorne quietly. “If he is not at home you had better wait.”
“Yes,” said Foray, moving away, “I suppose I had better wait for him. You will have to look out for Allison’s wire though on the other table. He was called over to the Department.”
“Oh, Allison!” said Thorne carelessly. “Be gone long, do you think?” he continued as he seated himself at the table and began to arrange the papers.
“Well, you know how it is. They generally whip around quite a while before they make up their minds what they want to do. I don’t suppose they will trouble you much. It’s as quiet as a church down the river. Good-night.”
“See here, Mr. Foray, wait a moment. You had better not walk out and leave—no matter,” continued Thorne, as the operator stopped and turned back. “It’s none of my business, still if you want some good advice, that is a dangerous thing to do.”
“What is it, Captain?” asked Foray, somewhat surprised.
“Leave a cigar lying around an office like that. Somebody might walk in any minute and take it away. I can’t watch your cigars all day.”
He picked up the cigar, and before Foray could prevent it, lighted it and began to smoke. Foray laughed.
“Help yourself, Captain, and if there is any trouble you will find a revolver on the table.”
“I see,” said Thorne, “but what makes you think there is going to be trouble?”
“Oh, well there might be.”
“Been having a bad dream?” asked the Captain nonchalantly.
“No, but you never can tell. All sorts of things are liable to happen in an office like this, and——.”
“That’s right,” said Thorne, puffing away at his cigar, “you never can tell. But see here. If you never can tell when you are going to have trouble you had better take that gun along with you. I have one of my own.”
“Well,” said the operator, “if you have one of your own, I might as well.”
He took the revolver up and tucked it in his belt. “Look out for yourself, Captain. Good-bye. I will be back as soon as the President gives me that despatch. That despatch I have just finished is for the Commissary General’s Office, but it can wait until the morning.”
“All right,” said Thorne, and the next moment the operator turned away while the clicking of the key called Thorne to the table. It took him but a few minutes to write the brief message which he addressed and turned to the first messenger, “Quartermaster General.”
“He wasn’t in his office a short time ago, sir,” said the messenger.
“Very well, find him. He has probably gone home and he has to have this message.”
“Very good, sir.”
The key kept up its clicking. In a short time another message was written off.
“Ready here,” cried Thorne, looking at the other messenger. “This is for the Secretary of the Treasury, marked private. Take it to his home.”
“He was down at the Cabinet meeting a little while ago, sir,” said the second messenger.
“No difference, take it to his house and wait until he comes.”
The instant the departing messenger left him alone in the room, Thorne leaped to his feet and ran with cat-like swiftness to the door, opened it, and quickly but carefully examined the corridor to make sure that no one was there on duty. Then he closed the door and turned to the nearest window, which he opened also, and looked out on the balcony, which he saw was empty. He closed the window and came back to the table, unbuckling his belt and coat as he came. These he threw on the table. The coat fell back, and he glanced in the breast pocket to see that a certain document was in sight and at hand, where he could get it quickly. Then he took his revolver, which he had previously slipped from his belt to his hip pocket, and laid it down beside the instrument.
After a final glance around him to see that he was still alone and unobserved, he seized the key on which he sounded a certain call. An expert telegrapher would have recognised it, a dash, four dots in rapid succession, then two dots together, and then two more (—.... .. ..). He waited a few moments, and when no answer came he signalled the call a second time, and after another longer wait he sent it a third time.
After this effort he made a longer pause, and just as he had about reached the end of his patience—he was in a fever of anxiety, for upon what happened in the next moment the failure or the success of the whole plan absolutely turned—the silent key clicked out an answer, repeating the same signal which he himself had made. The next moment he made a leap upon the key, but before he could send a single letter steps were heard outside in the corridor.
Thorne released the key, leaned back in his chair, seized a match from the little holder on the table and struck it, and when another messenger entered he seemed to be lazily lighting his cigar. He cursed in his heart at the inopportune arrival. Another uninterrupted moment and he would have sent the order, but as usual he gave no outward evidence of his extreme annoyance. The messenger came rapidly down toward the table and handed Captain Thorne a message.
“From the Secretary of War, Captain Thorne,” he said saluting, “and he wants it to go out right away.”
“Here, here,” said Thorne, as the messenger turned away, “what’s all this?” He ran his fingers through the envelope, tore it open, and spread out the despatch. “Is that the Secretary’s signature?” he asked.
The messenger came back.
“Yes, sir; I saw him sign it myself. I’m his personal messenger.”
“Oh!” said Thorne, spreading the despatch out on the table and O.K.’ing it, “you saw him sign it yourself, did you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. We have to be pretty careful to-night,” he explained, “there is something on. You are sure of this, are you?”
“I could swear to that signature anywhere, sir,” said the messenger.
“Very well,” said Thorne, “you may go.”
As soon as the door was closed behind the messenger Thorne laid his cigar down on the table. Then he picked up the despatch from the Secretary of War which the messenger had just brought in, and folded it very dexterously. Then with a pair of scissors which he found in a drawer he cut off the lower part of the Secretary’s despatch containing his signature. He put this between his teeth and tore the rest into pieces. He started to throw the pieces into the waste basket but after a moment’s reflection he stuffed them into his trouser pocket. Then he picked up his coat from the back of the chair and took from the inside breast pocket another document written on the same paper as that which had just come from the Secretary of War. Spreading this out on the table he cut off the signature and quickly pasted to it the piece of the real order bearing the real signature. He carefully wiped this pasted despatch with his handkerchief, making an exceedingly neat job of it.
As he did so, he smiled slightly. Fortune, which had dealt him so many rebuffs had evened up matters a little by giving him this opportunity. He had now in his possession a despatch bearing the genuine signature of the Secretary of War. Even if he were interrupted the chances were he would still be able to send it. So soon as he had doctored the despatch, he sat down at the instrument and once more essayed to send the message.
Now during all this rapid bit of manipulation Thorne had been under close observation, for Arrelsford and Edith Varney had come from the Commissary General’s Office, where they had concealed themselves while Thorne examined the porch, and had stepped back to the nearest window and were intently watching. Fortunately, his back partially concealed his actions and the watchers could not tell exactly what he had done, although it was quite evident that he was in some way altering some kind of a despatch.
Just as Thorne began to send the message, Arrelsford accidentally struck the window with his elbow, making a slight sound. The instant he did so, he and the girl vanished from sight. Once again Thorne released the key, and his hand moved quietly but rapidly from the instrument to the revolver. The instant it was in his hand he sprang to his feet, whirled about, leaped to the gas bracket and turned off the light. The room was left in darkness, save for the faint illumination of the moonlight through the windows.
Immediately he turned off the light he ran to the doors leading into the hall. They were provided with heavy old-fashioned bolts which he shot swiftly, locking them on the inside. Then with the utmost caution he edged around the wall until he came to the first window. He waited with his left hand on the catch of the window, and with his right advanced his revolver. After a moment’s pause he threw it open quickly and stepped out on the balcony. It was empty as before.
He must have made a mistake, he thought, since no one was there, and he blamed the whole incident to his over-agitated nerves. Indeed what he had gone through in the preceding two hours would have shaken any man’s nerves, might have broken most men’s. He was annoyed at having wasted precious time, and turned to the table again, stopping on his way to relight the light.
Once more he seized the key. He could telegraph equally well with either hand. He did not lay down his revolver on the table this time, but kept it in his right hand while the fingers of his left hand touched the button. He had scarcely made a dot or a dash when there was a sudden flash of light and the sound of an explosion, that of a heavy revolver, mingled with the crash of shattered glass. Captain Thorne’s fingers fell from the key and a jet of blood spurted out upon the table and the papers.
He rose to his feet with incredible swiftness, his revolver in his right hand, only to be confronted by Arrelsford at the front window. The latter held in his hand, pointed fairly and squarely at Thorne, the heavy service revolver with which he had just shot him in the left wrist. Thorne made a swift motion with his right hand but Arrelsford was too quick for him.
“Drop that gun!” he shouted. “Drop it quick, or you are a dead man!”
There was no possibility of disobedience. Thorne straightened up and laid his revolver on the table. The two confronted each other, and if looks could have killed they had both been dead men. The soldier shrugged his shoulders at last, took his handkerchief out of his pocket, put one end of it between his teeth, and with the other hand wrapped it tightly around his wounded wrist.
The civilian meantime advanced toward him, keeping him covered all the time with his revolver.
“Do you know why I didn’t kill you like the dog you are, just now?” he asked truculently, as he drew nearer.
“Because you are such a damned bad shot, I suppose,” coolly answered Thorne between his teeth, still tying the bandage, after which he calmly picked up his cigar and began smoking again with the utmost indifference.
Whatever fate had in store for him could better be met, he thought swiftly at this juncture, provided he kept his temper, and so he spoke as nonchalantly as before. Indeed his manner had always been most irritating and exacerbating to Arrelsford.
“Maybe you will change your mind about that later on,” the latter rejoined.
“Well, I hope so,” said Thorne, completing his bandage and tying the knot so as to leave the fingers of his left hand free. “You see, it isn’t pleasant to be riddled up this way.”
“Next time you’ll be riddled somewhere else beside the wrist. There’s only one reason why you are not lying there now with a bullet through your head.”
“Only one?” queried Thorne.
“Only one.”
“Do I hear it?”
“You do. I gave my word of honour to some one outside that I wouldn’t kill you, and——”
“Oh, then this isn’t a little tête-à-tête just between ourselves. You have some one with you?” asked Thorne, interested greatly in this new development, wondering who the some one was who had interfered in his behalf. Perhaps that evident friendship might be turned to account later on. For a moment not an idea of who was there entered Thorne’s mind.
“Yes, I have some one with me, Captain Thorne, who takes quite an interest in what you are doing to-night,” returned Arrelsford sneeringly.
“That is very kind, I am sure. Is the—er—gentleman going to stay out there all alone on the balcony or shall I have the pleasure of inviting him in here and having a charming little three-handed——”
The third party answered the question, for Edith Varney came through the window with the shattered pane through which Arrelsford had fired and entered. Thorne was shocked beyond measure by her arrival, not the slightest suspicion that she could have been there had crossed his mind. So she had been an eye witness to his treachery. He had faced Arrelsford’s pistol with the utmost composure, there was something in Edith Varney’s look that cut him to the heart, yet she did not look at him either. On the contrary, she carefully avoided his glance. Instead she turned to Arrelsford.
“I think I will go, Mr. Arrelsford,” she said in a low, choked voice.
“Not yet, Miss Varney,” he said peremptorily.
The girl gave him no heed. She turned and walked blindly toward the door.
“I don’t wish, to stay here any longer,” she faltered.
“One moment, please,” said Arrelsford, as she stopped, “we need you.”
“For what?”
“As a witness.”
“You can send for me if you need me, I will be at home.”
“I am sorry,” said Arrelsford, again interposing, “I will have to detain you until I turn him over to the guard. It won’t take long.”
The middle window was open and he stepped to it, still keeping an eye on Thorne, and shouted at the top of his voice:
“Call the guard! Corporal of the Guard! Send up the guard to the telegraph office!”
The note of triumph in his voice was unmistakable. From the street the three inside heard a faint cry:
“What’s the matter? Who calls the guard?”
“Up here in the telegraph office,” said Arrelsford, “send them up quick.”
The answer was evident sufficient, for they could hear the orders and the tumult in the square below.
“Corporal of the Guard, Post Four! Fall in the guard! Fall in! Lively, men!” and so on.
The game appeared to be up this time. Mr. Arrelsford held all the winning cards, thought Thorne, and he was playing them skilfully. He ground his teeth at the thought that another moment and the order would have been sent probably beyond recall. Fate had played him a scurvy trick, it had thwarted him at the last move, and Arrelsford had so contrived that his treachery had been before the woman he loved. Under other circumstances the wound in his wrist would have given him exquisite pain, as it was he scarcely realised at the time that he had been hurt.
Arrelsford still stood by the window, glancing out on the square but keeping Thorne under close observation. The evil look in his eyes and the malicious sneer on his lips well seconded the expression of triumph in his face. He had the man he hated where he wanted him. It was a splendid piece of work that he had performed, and in the performance he sated his private vengeance and carried out his public duty.
On his part, Thorne was absolutely helpless. There was that in the bearing of the woman he loved that prevented him from approaching her. He shot a mute look of appeal to her which she received with marble face, apparently absolutely indifferent to his presence, yet she was suffering scarcely less than he. In her anguish she turned desperately to Arrelsford.
“I am not going to stay,” she said decisively, “I don’t wish to be a witness.”
“Whatever your feelings may be, Miss Varney,” persisted Arrelsford, “I can’t permit you to refuse.”
“If you won’t take me downstairs, I will find the way myself,” returned the girl as if she had not heard.
She turned resolutely toward the door. Before she reached it the heavy tramping of the guard was heard.
“Too late,” said Arrelsford triumphantly, “you can’t go now, the guard is here.”
Edith could hear the approaching soldiers as well as anybody. The way was barred, she realised instantly. Well, if she could not escape, at least she could get out of sight. She turned and opened the nearest window and stepped out. Arrelsford knew that she could not go far, and that he could produce her whenever he wanted her. He made no objection to her departure that way, therefore. Instead he looked at Thorne.
“I have you just where I want you at last,” he said mockingly, as the trampling feet came nearer. “You thought you were mighty smart, but you will find that I can match your trick every time.”
Outside in the hall the men came to a sudden halt before the door. One of them knocked loudly upon it.
“What’s the matter here?” cried the Sergeant of the Guard without.
The handle was tried and the door was shoved violently, but the brass bolt held.
“Let us in!” he cried angrily.
Quick as a flash of lightning an idea came to Thorne.
“Sergeant!” he shouted in a powerful voice. “Sergeant of the Guard!”
“Sir!”
“Break down the door! Break it down with your musket butts!”
As the butts of the muskets pounded against the heavy mahogany panels, Arrelsford cried out in great surprise:
“What did you say?”
In his astonishment, he did not notice a swift movement Thorne made toward the door.
“You want them in, don’t you?” the soldier said, as he approached the door. “It is locked and——”
But Arrelsford recovered himself a little and again presented his revolver.
“Stand where you are,” he cried, but Thorne by this time had reached the door.
“Smash it down, Sergeant!” he cried. “What are you waiting for! Batter it down!”
The next moment the door gave way with a crash, and into the room poured the guard. The grizzled old Sergeant had scarcely stepped inside the room when Thorne shouted in tones of the fiercest authority, pointing at Arrelsford:
“Arrest that man!”
Before the dazed Secret Service Agent could say a word or press the trigger the soldiers were upon him.
“He got in here with a revolver,” continued Thorne more quietly, “and is playing hell with it. Hold him fast!”