The deep snow was followed by the beginning of a thaw, interrupted by a sudden and very sharp cold spell, when the mercury went down to zero and the water from the melting snow turned to ice. Richmond was encased in a sheath of gleaming white. The cold wintry sun was reflected from roofs of ice, the streets were covered with it, icicles hung like rows of spears from the eaves, and the human breath smoked at the touch of the air.

And as the winter pressed down closer and heavier on Richmond, so did the omens of her fate. Higher and higher went the price of food, and lower and lower sank the hopes of her people. Their momentary joy under the influence of such events as the Morgan reception was like the result of a stimulant or narcotic, quickly over and leaving the body lethargic and dull. But this dullness had in it no thought of yielding.

On the second day of the great cold all the Harleys came over to take tea with Mrs. Prescott and her son, and then Helen disclosed the fact that the Government was still assiduous in its search for the spy and the lost documents.

“Mr. Sefton thinks that we have a clue,” she said, identifying herself with the Government now by the use of the pronoun.

Prescott was startled a little, but he hid his surprise under a calm voice when he asked:

“What is this clue, or is it a secret?”

“No, not among us who are so loyal to the cause,” she replied innocently; “and it may be that they want it known more widely because here in Richmond we are all, in a way, defenders of the faith our faith. They say that it was a woman who stole the papers, a tall woman in a brown dress and brown cloak, who entered the building when nearly everybody was gone to the Morgan reception. Mr. Sefton has learned that much from one of the servants.”

“Has he learned anything more?” asked Prescott, whose heart was beating in a way that he did not like.

“No, the traces stop at that point; but Mr. Sefton believes she will be found. He says she could not have escaped from the city.”

“It takes a man like Sefton to follow the trail of a woman,” interrupted Colonel Harley. “If it were not for the papers she has I’d say let her go.”

Prescott had a sudden feeling of warmth for Vincent Harley, and he now believed a good heart to beat under the man’s vain nature; but that was to be expected: he was Helen Harley’s brother. However, it did not appeal to Helen that way.

“Shouldn’t a woman who does such things suffer punishment like a man?” she asked.

“Maybe so,” replied the Colonel, “but I couldn’t inflict it.”

The elder Harley advanced no opinion, but he was sure whatever Mr. Sefton did in the matter was right; and he believed, too, that the agile Secretary was more capable than any other man of dealing with the case. In fact, he was filled that day with a devout admiration of Mr. Sefton, and he did not hesitate to proclaim it, bending covert glances at his daughter as he pronounced these praises. Mr. Sefton, he said, might differ a little in certain characteristics from the majority of the Southern people, he might be a trifle shrewder in financial affairs, but, after all, the world must come to that view, and hard-headed men such as he would be of great value when the new Southern Republic began its permanent establishment and its dealings with foreign nations. As for himself, he recognized the fact that he was not too old to learn, and Mr. Sefton was teaching him.

Prescott listened with outward respect, but the words were so much mist to his brain, evaporating easily. Nor did Mr. Harley’s obvious purpose trouble him as much as it had on previous occasions, the figure of the Secretary not looming so large in his path as it used to.

He was on his way, two hours later, to the little house in the side street, bending his face to a keen winter blast that cut like the edge of a knife. He heard the wooden buildings popping as they contracted under the cold, and near the outskirts of the town he saw the little fires burning where the sentinels stopped now and then on their posts to warm their chilled fingers. He was resolved now to protect Lucia Catherwood. The belief of others that the woman of the brown cloak was guilty aroused in him the sense of opposition. She must be innocent!

He knocked again at the door, and as before it did not yield until he had knocked several times. It was then Miss Charlotte Grayson who appeared, and to Prescott’s heightened fancy she seemed thinner and more acidulous than ever. There was less of fear in her glance than when he came the first time, but reproach took its place, and was expressed so strongly that Prescott exclaimed at once:

“I do not come to annoy you, Miss Grayson, but merely to inquire after yourself and your friend, Miss Catherwood.”

Then he went in, uninvited, and looked about the room. Nothing was changed except the fire, which was lower and feebler; it seemed to Prescott that the two or three lumps of coal on the hearth were hugging each other for scant comfort, and even as he looked at it the timbers of the house popped with the cold.

“Miss Catherwood is still with you, is she not?” asked Prescott. “My errand concerns her, and it is for her good that I have come.”

“Why do you, a Confederate officer, trouble yourself about a woman who, you say, has acted as a spy for the North?” asked Miss Grayson, pointedly.

Prescott hesitated and flushed. Then he answered:

“I hope, Miss Grayson, that I shall never be able to overlook a woman in distress.”

His eyes wandered involuntarily to the feeble fire, and then in its turn the thin face of Miss Grayson flushed. For a moment, in her embarrassment, she looked almost beautiful.

“Miss Catherwood is still here, is she not?” repeated Prescott. “I assure you that I came in her interest.”

Miss Grayson gave him a look of such keenness that Prescott saw again the strength and penetration underlying her timid and doubtful manner. She seemed to be reassured and replied:

“Yes, she is here. I will call her.”

She disappeared into the next room and presently Miss Catherwood came forth alone. She held her head as haughtily as ever, and regarded him with a look in which he saw much defiance, and he fancied, too, a little disdain.

“Captain Prescott,” she said proudly, “I am not an object for military supervision.”

“I am aware of that,” he replied, “and I do not mean to be impolite, Miss Catherwood, when I say that I regret to find you still here.”

She pointed through the window to the white and frozen world outside.

“I should be glad enough to escape,” she said, “but that forbids.”

“I know it, or at least I expected it,” said Prescott, “and it is partly why I am here. I came to warn you.”

“To warn me! Do I not know that I am in a hostile city?”

“But there is more. The search for those missing papers, and, above all, for the one who took them a tall woman in a brown cloak, they say has not ceased, nor will it; the matter is in the hands of a crafty, persistent man and he thinks he has a clue. He has learned, as I learned, that a woman dressed like you and looking like you was in the Government building on the day of the celebration. He believes that woman is still in the city, and he is sure that she is the one for whom he seeks.”

Her face blanched; he saw for the first time a trace of feminine weakness, even fear. It was gone, however, like a mist before a wind, as her courage came back.

“But this man, whoever he may be, cannot find me,” she said. “I am hidden unless some one chooses to betray me; not that I care for myself, but I cannot involve my generous cousin in such a trouble.”

Prescott shook his head.

“Your trust I have not merited, Miss Catherwood,” he said. “If I had chosen to give you up to the authorities I should have done so before this. And your confidence in your hiding place is misplaced, too. Richmond is small. It is not a great city like New York or Philadelphia, and those who would conceal a Northern spy I speak plainly are but few. It is easy to search and find.”

Prescott saw her tremble a little, although her face did not whiten again, nor did a tear rise to her eye. She went again to the window, staring there at the frozen world of winter, and Prescott saw that a purpose was forming in her mind. It was a purpose bold and desperate, but he knew that it would fail and so he spoke. He pointed out to her the lines of defenses around Richmond, and the wilderness beyond all, buried under a cold that chained sentinels even to their fires; she would surely perish, even if she passed the watch.

“But if I were taken,” she said, “I should be taken alone and they would know nothing of Miss Grayson.”

“But I should never give up hope,” he said. “After all, the hunted may hide, if warned, when the hunter is coming.”

She gave him a glance, luminous, grateful, so like a shaft of light passing from one to another that it set Prescott’s blood to leaping.

“Captain Prescott,” she said, “I really owe you thanks.”

Prescott felt as if he had been repaid, and afterward in the coolness of his own exclusive company he was angry with himself for the feeling but she stirred his curiosity; he was continually conscious of a desire to know what manner of woman she was to penetrate this icy mist, as it were, in which she seemed to envelop herself.

There was now no pretext for him to stay longer, but he glanced at the fire which had burned lower than ever, only two coals hugging each other in the feeble effort to give forth heat. Prescott was standing beside a little table and unconsciously he rested his right hand upon it. But he slipped the hand into his pocket, and when he took it out and rested it upon the table again there was something between the closed fingers.

Miss Grayson returned at this moment to the room and looked inquiringly at the two.

“Miss Catherwood will tell you all that I have said to her,” said Prescott, “and I bid you both adieu.”

When he lifted his hand from the table he left upon it what the fingers had held, but neither of the women noticed the action.

Prescott slipped into the street, looking carefully to see that he was not observed, and annoyed because he had to do so; as always his heart revolted at hidden work. But Richmond was cold and desolate, and he went back to the heart of the city, unobserved, meaning to find Winthrop, who always knew the gossip, and to learn if any further steps had been taken in the matter of the stolen documents.

He found the editor with plenty of time on his hands and an abundant inclination to talk. Yes, there was something. Mr. Sefton, so he heard, meant to make the matter one of vital importance, and the higher officers of the Government were content to leave it to him, confident of his ability and pertinacity and glad enough to be relieved of such a task.

Prescott, when he heard this, gazed thoughtfully at the cobwebbed ceiling. There was yet no call for him to go to the front, and he would stay to match his wits against those of the great Mr. Sefton; he had been drawn unconsciously into a conflict a conflict of which he was perhaps unconscious and every impulse in him told him to fight.

When he went to his supper that evening he found a very small package wrapped in brown paper lying unopened beside his plate. He knew it in an instant, and despite himself his face flooded with colour.

“It was left here for you an hour ago,” said his mother, who in that moment achieved a triumph permitted to few mothers, burying a mighty curiosity under seeming indifference.

“Who left it, mother?” asked Prescott, involuntarily.

“I do not know,” she replied. “There was a heavy knock upon the door while I was busy, and when I went there after a moment’s delay I found this lying upon the sill, but the bringer was gone.”

Prescott put the package in his pocket and ate his supper uneasily.

When he was alone in his room he drew the tiny parcel from his pocket and took off the paper, disclosing two twenty-dollar gold pieces, which he returned to his pocket with a sigh.

“At least I meant well,” he said to himself.

A persistent nature feeds on opposition, and the failure of his first attempt merely prepared Prescott for a second. The affair, too, began to absorb his mind to such an extent that his friends noticed his lack of interest in the society and amusements of Richmond. He had been well received there, his own connections, his new friends, and above all his pleasing personality, exercising a powerful influence; and, coming from the rough fields of war, he had enjoyed his stay very keenly.

But he had a preoccupation now, and he was bent upon doing what he wished to do. Talbot and the two editors rallied him upon his absence of mind, and even Helen, despite her new interest in Wood, looked a little surprised and perhaps a little aggrieved at his inattention; but none of these things had any effect upon him. His mind was now thrown for the time being into one channel, and he could not turn it into another if he wished.

On the next morning after his failure he passed again near the little wooden house, the day being as cold as ever and the smoke of many chimneys lying in black lines against the perfect blue-and-white heavens. He looked at the chimney of the little wooden cottage, and there, too, was smoke coming forth; but it was a thin and feeble stream, scarcely making even a pale blur against the transparent skies. The house itself appeared to be as cold and chilly as the frozen snow outside.

Prescott glanced up and down the street. An old man, driving a small wagon drawn by a single horse, was about to pass him. Prescott looked into the body of the wagon and saw that it contained coal.

“For sale?” he asked.

The man nodded.

“How much for the lot?”

“Twenty dollars.”

“Gold or Confederate money?”

The old man blew his breath on his red woolen comforter and thoughtfully watched it freeze there, then he looked Prescott squarely in the face and asked:

“Stranger, have you just escaped from a lunatic asylum?”

“Certainly not!”

“Then why do you ask me such a fool question?”

Prescott drew forth one of the two twenty-dollar gold pieces and handed it to the man.

“I take your coal,” he said. “Now unload it into that little back yard there and answer no questions. Can you do both?”

“Of course for twenty dollars in gold,” replied the driver.

Prescott walked farther up the street, but he watched the man, and saw him fulfil his bargain, a task easily and quickly done. He tipped the coal into the little back yard of the wooden cottage, and drove away, obviously content with himself and his bargain. Then Prescott, too, went his way, feeling a pleasant glow.

He came back the next morning and the coal lay untouched. The board fence concealed it from the notice of casual passers, and so thieves had not been tempted. Those in the house must have seen it, yet not a lump was gone; and the feeble stream of smoke from the chimney had disappeared; nothing rose there to stain the sky. It occurred to Prescott that both the women might have fled from the city, but second thought told him escape was impossible. They must yet be inside the house; and surely it was very cold there!

He came back the same afternoon, but the coal was still untouched and the cold gripped everything in bands of iron. He returned a third time the next morning, slipping along in the shadow of the high board fence like a thief he did have a somewhat guilty conscience but when he peeped over the fence he uttered an exclamation.

Four of the largest lumps of coal were missing!

There was no doubt of it; he had marked them lying on the top of the heap, and distinguished by their unusual size.

“They are certainly gone,” said Prescott to himself.

But it was not thieves. There in the snow he perceived the tracks of small feet leading from the coal-heap to the back door of the house.

Prescott felt a mighty sense of triumph, and gave utterance in a low voice to the unpoetic exclamation:

“They had to knuckle!”

But there was no smoke coming from the chimney, and he knew they had just taken the coal. “They!” It was “she,” as there was only one trail in the snow, but he wondered which one. He was curiously inquisitive on this point, and he would have given much to know, but he did not dream of forcing an entrance into the house; yes “forcing” was now the word.

He was afraid to linger, as he did not wish to be seen by anybody either inside or outside the cottage, and went away; but he came back in an hour that is, he came to the corner of the street, where he could see the feeble column of smoke rising once more from the chimney of the little wooden house.

Then, beholding this faint and unintentional signal, he smote himself upon the knee, giving utterance again to his feelings of triumph, and departed, considering himself a young man of perception and ability. His amiability lasted so long that his mother congratulated him upon it, and remarked that he must have had good news, but Prescott gallantly attributed his happiness to her presence alone. She said nothing in reply, but kept her thoughts to herself.

Inasmuch as the mind grows upon what it consumes, Prescott was soon stricken with a second thought, and the next day at twilight he bought as obscurely as he could a Virginia-cured ham and carried it away, wrapped in brown paper, under his arm.

Fortunately he met no one who took notice, and he reached the little street unobserved. Here he deliberated with himself awhile, but concluded at last to put it on the back door step.

“When they come for coal,” he said to himself, “they will see it, or if they don’t they will fall over it, if some sneak thief doesn’t get it first.”

He noticed, dark as it was, that the little trail in the snow had grown, and in an equal ratio the size of the coal pile had diminished.

Then he crept away, looking about him with great care lest he be seen, but some intuition sent him back, and when he stole along in the shadow of the fence he saw the rear door of the house open and a thin, angular figure appear upon the threshold. It was too dark for him to see the face, but he knew it to be Miss Grayson. That figure could not belong to the other.

She stumbled, too, and uttered a low cry, and Prescott, knowing the cause of both, was pleased. Then he saw her stoop and, raising his supply of manna in both her hands, unfold the wrappings of brown paper. She looked all about, and Prescott knew, in fancy, that her gaze was startled and inquisitive. The situation appealed to him, flattering alike his sense of pleasure and his sense of mystery, and again he laughed softly to himself.

A cloud which had hidden it sailed past and the moonlight fell in a silver glow on the old maid’s thin but noble features; then Prescott saw a look of perplexity, mingled with another look which he did not wholly understand, but which did not seem hostile. She hesitated awhile, fingering the package, then she put it back upon the sill and beckoned to one within.

Prescott saw Miss Catherwood appear beside Miss Grayson. He could never mistake her her height, that proud curve of the neck and the firm poise of the head. She wore, too, the famous brown cloak thrown over her shoulders. He found a strange pleasure in seeing her there, but he was sorry, too, that Miss Grayson had called her, as he fancied now that he knew the result.

He saw them talking, the shrug of the younger woman’s shoulders, the appealing gesture of the older, and then the placing of the package upon the sill, after which the two retreated into the house and shut the door.

Prescott experienced distinct irritation, even anger, and rising from his covert he walked away, feeling for the moment rather smaller than usual.

“Then some sneak thief shall have it,” he said to himself, “for I will not take it again,” and at that moment he wished what he said.

True to Redfield’s prediction, the search for the hidden spy began the next morning, and, under the direction of Mr. Sefton, was carried on with great zeal and energy, attracting in its course, as was natural, much attention from the people of Richmond.

Some of the comments upon this piece of enterprise were not favourable, and conspicuous among them was that of Mrs. Prescott, who said to her son:

“If this spy has escaped from Richmond, then the search is useless; if still here, then no harm has been done and there is nothing to undo.”

Prescott grew nervous, and presently he went forth to watch the hue and cry. The house of Miss Charlotte Grayson had not been searched yet, but it was soon to be, as Miss Grayson was well known for her Northern sympathies. He hovered in the vicinity, playing the rôle of the curious onlooker, in which he was not alone, and presently he saw a small party of soldiers, ten in number, headed by Talbot himself, arrive in front of the little brown cottage.

When he beheld his friend conducting this particular portion of the search, Prescott was tempted, if the opportunity offered, to confide the truth to Talbot and leave the rest to his generosity; but cool reflection told him that he had no right to put such a weight upon a friend, and while he sought another way, Talbot himself hailed him.

“Come along and hold up my hands for me, Bob,” he said. “This is a nasty duty that they’ve put me to it’s that man Sefton and I need help when I pry into the affairs of a poor old maid’s house Miss Charlotte Grayson.”

Prescott accepted the invitation, because it was given in such a friendly way and because he was drawn on by curiosity a desire to see the issue. It might be that Miss Catherwood, reasserting her claim of innocence, would not seek to conceal herself, but it seemed to him that the evidence against her was too strong. And he believed that she would do anything to avoid compromising Miss Grayson.

The house was closed, windows and doors, but a thin gray stream of smoke rose from the chimney. Prescott noticed, with wary eye, that the snow which lay deep on the ground was all white and untrodden in front of the house.

One of the soldiers, obedient to Talbot’s order, used the knocker of the door, and after repeating the action twice and thrice and receiving no response, broke the lock with the butt of his rifle.

“I have to do it,” said Talbot with an apologetic air to Prescott. “It’s orders.”

They entered the little drawing-room and found Miss Grayson, sitting in prim and dignified silence, in front of the feeble fire that burned on the hearth. It looked to Prescott like the same fire that was flickering there when first he came, but he believed now it was his coal.

Miss Grayson remained silent, but a high colour glowed in her face and much fire was in her eye. She shot one swift glance at Prescott and then ignored him. Talbot, Prescott and all the soldiers took off their caps and bowed, a courtesy which the haughty old maid ignored without rising.

“Miss Grayson,” said Talbot humbly, “we have come to search your house.”

“To search it for what?” she asked icily.

“A Northern spy.”

“A fine duty for a Southern gentleman,” she said.

Talbot flushed red.

“Miss Grayson,” he said, “this is more painful to me than it is to you.
You are a well-known Northern sympathizer and I am compelled to do it.
It is no choice of mine.”

Prescott noticed that Talbot refrained from asking her if she had any spy hidden in the house, not putting her word to the proof, and mentally he thanked him. “You are a real Southern gentleman,” he thought.

Miss Grayson remained resolutely in her chair and stared steadily into the fire, ignoring the search, after her short and sharp talk with Talbot, who took his soldiers into the other rooms, glad to get out of her presence. Prescott lingered behind, anxious to catch the eye of Miss Grayson and to have a word with her, but she ignored him as pointedly as she had ignored Talbot, though he walked heavily about, making his boots clatter on the floor. Still that terrifying old maid stared into the fire, as if she were bent upon watching every flickering flame and counting every coal.

Her silence at last grew so ominous and weighed so heavily upon Prescott’s spirits that he fled from the room and joined Talbot, who growled and asked him why he had not come sooner, saying: “A real friend would stay with me and share all that’s disagreeable.”

Prescott wondered what the two women would say of him when they found Miss Catherwood, but he was glad afterward to remember that his chief feeling was for Miss Catherwood and not for himself. He expected every moment that they would find her, and it was hard to keep his heart from jumping. He looked at every chair and table and sofa, dreading lest he should see the famous brown cloak lying there.

It was a small house with not many rooms, and the search took but a short time. They passed from one to another seeing nothing suspicious, and came to the last. “She is here,” thought Prescott, “fleeing like a hunted hare to the final covert.” But she was not there and it was evident that she was not in the house at all. It was impossible for one in so small a space to have eluded the searchers. Talbot heaved a sigh of relief, and Prescott felt as if he could imitate him.

“A nasty job well done,” said Talbot.

They went back to the sitting-room, where the lady of the house was still confiding her angry thoughts to the red coals.

“Our search is ended,” said Talbot politely to Miss Grayson, “and I am glad to say that we have found nothing.”

The lady’s gaze was not deflected a particle, nor did she reply.

“I bid you good-day, Miss Grayson,” continued Talbot, “and hope that you will not be annoyed again in this manner.”

Still no reply nor any change in the confidences passing between the lady and the red coals.

Talbot gathered up his men with a look and hurried outside the house, followed in equal haste by Prescott.

“How warm it is out here!” exclaimed Talbot, as he stood in the snow.

“Warm?” said Prescott in surprise, looking around at the chill world.

“Yes, in comparison with the temperature in there,” said Talbot, pointing to Miss Grayson’s house.

Prescott laughed, and he felt a selfish joy that the task had been Talbot’s and not his. But he was filled, too, with wonder. What had become of Miss Catherwood?

They had just turned into the main street, when they met Mr. Sefton, who seemed expectant.

“Did you find the spy, Mr. Talbot?” he asked.

“No,” replied Talbot, with ill-concealed aversion; “there was nothing in the house.”

“I thought it likely that some one would be found there,” said the Secretary thoughtfully. “Miss Grayson has never hidden her Northern sympathies, and a woman is just fanatic enough to help in such a business.”

Then he dismissed Talbot and his men the Secretary had at times a curt and commanding manner and took Prescott’s arm in his with an appearance of great friendship and confidence.

“I want to talk with you a bit about this affair, Captain Prescott,” he said. “You are going back to the front soon, and in the shock of the great battles that are surely coming such a little thing will disappear from your mind; but it has its importance, nevertheless. Now we do not know whom to trust. I may have seemed unduly zealous. Confess that you have thought so, Captain Prescott.”

Prescott did not reply and the Secretary smiled.

“I knew it,” he continued; “you have thought so, and so have many others in Richmond, but I must do my duty, nevertheless. This spy, I am sure, is yet in the city; but while she cannot get out herself, she may have ways of forwarding to the enemy what she steals from us. There is where the real danger lies, and I am of the opinion that the spy is aided by some one in Richmond, ostensibly a friend of the Southern cause. What do you think of it, Captain?”

The young Captain was much startled, but he kept his countenance and answered with composure:

“I really don’t know anything about it, Mr. Sefton. I chanced to be passing, and as Mr. Talbot, who is one of my best friends, asked me to go in with him, I did so.”

“And it does credit to your zeal,” said the Secretary. “It is in fact a petty business, but that is where you soldiers in the field have the advantage of us administrators. You fight in great battles and you win glory, but you don’t have anything to do with the little things.”

“Our lives are occupied chiefly with little things; the great battles take but a few hours in our existence.”

“But you have a free and open life,” said the Secretary. “It is true that your chance of death is great, but all of us must come to that, sooner or later. As I said, you are in the open; you do not have any of the mean work to do.”

The Secretary sighed and leaned a little on Prescott’s arm. The young Captain regarded him out of the corner of his eye, but he could read nothing in his companion’s face. Mr. Sefton’s air was that of a man a-weary one disgusted with the petty ways and intrigues of office.

They walked on together, though Prescott would have escaped could he have done so, and many people, noting the two thus arm in arm, said to each other that young Captain Prescott must be rising in favour, as everybody knew Mr. Sefton to be a powerful man.

Feeling sure that this danger was past for the present, Robert went home to his mother, who received him in the sitting-room with a slight air of agitation unusual in one of such a placid temper.

“Well, mother, what is the matter?” he asked. “One would think from your manner that you have been taking part in this search for the spy.”

“And that I am suffering from disappointment because the spy has not been found?”

“How did you know that, mother?”

“The cook told me. Do you suppose that such an event as this would escape the notice of a servant? Why, I am prepared to gossip about it myself.”

“Well, mother, there is little to be said. You told me this morning that you hoped the spy would not be found, and your wish has come true.”

“I see no reason to change my wish,” she said. “The Confederate Government has heavier work to do now than to hunt for a spy.”

But Prescott noticed during the remainder of the afternoon and throughout supper that his mother’s slight attacks of agitation were recurrent. There was another change in her. She was rarely a demonstrative woman, even to her son, and though her only child, she had never spoiled him; but now she was very solicitous for him. Had he suffered from the cold? Was he to be assigned to some particularly hard duty? She insisted, too, upon giving him the best of food, and Prescott, wishing to please her, quietly acquiesced, but watched her covertly though keenly.

He knew his mother was under the influence of some unusual emotion, and he judged that this house-to-house search for a spy had touched a soft heart.

“Mother,” he said, after supper, “I think I shall go out for awhile this evening.”

“Do go by all means,” she said. “The young like the young, and I wish you to be with your friends while you are in Richmond.”

Prescott looked at her in surprise. She had never objected to his spending the evening elsewhere, but this was the first time she had urged him to go. Yes, “urged” was the word, because her tone indicated it. However, she was so good about asking no questions that he asked none in return, and went forth without comment.

His steps, as often before, led him to Winthrop’s office, where he and his friends had grown into the habit of meeting and discussing the news. To-night Wood came in, too, and sat silently in a chair, whittling a pine stick with a bowie-knife and evidently in deep thought. His continued stay in Richmond excited comment, because he was a man of such restless activity. He had never before been known to remain so long in one place, though now the frozen world, making military operations impossible or impracticable, offered fair excuse.

“That man Sefton came to see me to-day,” he said after a long silence. “He wanted to know just how we are going to whip the enemy. What a fool question! I don’t like Sefton. I wish he was on the other side!”

A slight smile appeared on the faces of most of those present. All men knew the reason why the mountain General did not like the Secretary, but no one ventured upon a teasing remark. The great black-haired cavalryman, sitting there, trimming off pine shavings with a razor-edged bowie-knife, seemed the last man in the world to be made the subject of a jest.

Prescott left at midnight, but he did not reach home until an hour later, having done an errand in the meanwhile. In the course of the day he had marked a circumstance of great interest and importance. Frame houses when old and as lightly built as that in the little side street are likely to sag somewhere. Now, at a certain spot the front door of this house failed to meet the floor by at least an eighth of an inch, and Prescott proposed to take advantage of the difference.

In the course of the day he had counted his remaining gold with great satisfaction. He had placed one broad, shining twenty-dollar piece in a small envelope, and now as he walked through the snow he fingered it in his pocket, feeling all the old satisfaction.

He was sure it was an intuition as well as the logical result of reasoning that Lucia Catherwood was still in the city and would return to Miss Grayson’s cottage. Now he bent his own steps that way, looking up at the peaceful moon and down at the peaceful capital. Nothing was alight except the gambling houses; the dry snow crunched under his feet, but there was no other sound save the tread of an occasional sentinel, and the sharp crack of the timbers in a house contracting under the great cold.

A wind arose and moaned in the desolate streets of the dark city. Prescott bent to the blast, and shivering, drew the collar of his military cloak high about his ears. Then he laughed at himself for a fool because he was going to the help of two women who probably hated and scorned him; but he went on.

The little house was dark and silent. The sky above, though shadowed by night, was blue and clear, showing everything that rose against it; but there was no smoke from the cottage to leave a trail there.

“That’s wisdom,” thought Prescott. “Coal’s too precious a thing now in Richmond to be wasted. It would be cheaper to burn Confederate money.”

He stood for a moment, shivering by the gate, having little thought of detection, as use had now bred confidence in him, and then went inside. It was the work of but half a minute to slip a double eagle in its paper wrapping in the crack under the door, and then he walked away feeling again that pleasing glow which always came over him after a good deed.

He was two squares away when he encountered a figure walking softly, and the moonlight revealed the features of Mr. Sefton, the last man in the world whom he wished to see just then. He was startled, even more startled than he would admit to himself, at encountering this man who hung upon him and in a measure seemed to cut off his breath.

But he was convinced once more that it was only chance, as the Secretary’s face bore no look of malice, no thought of suspicion, being, on the contrary, mild and smiling. As before, he took Prescott’s unresisting arm and pointed up at the bright stars in their sea of blue.

“They are laughing at our passions, Mr. Prescott, perhaps smiling is the word,” he said. “Such a peace as that appeals to me. I am not fond of war and I know that you are not. I feel it particularly to-night. There is poetry in the heavens so calm and so cold.”

Prescott said nothing; the old sense of oppression, of one caught in a trap, was in full force, and he merely waited.

“I wish to speak frankly to-night,” continued the Secretary. “There was at first a feeling of coldness, even hostility, between us, but in my case, and I think in yours too, it has passed. It is because we now recognize facts and understand that we are in a sense rivals friendly rivals in a matter of which we know well.”

The hand upon Prescott’s arm did not tremble a particle as the Secretary thus spoke so clearly. But Prescott did not answer, and they went on in silence to the end of the square, where a man, a stranger to Prescott, was waiting.

Mr. Sefton beckoned to the stranger and, politely asking Prescott to excuse him a moment, talked with him a little while in low tones. Then he dismissed him and rejoined Prescott.

“A secret service agent,” he said. “Unfortunately, I have to do with these people, though I am sure it could not be more repugnant to any one than it is to me; but we are forced to it. We must keep a watch even here in Richmond among our own people.”

Prescott felt cold to the spine when the Secretary, with a courteous good-night, released him a few moments later. Then he hurried home and slept uneasily.

He was in dread at the breakfast table the next morning lest his mother should hand him a tiny package, left at the door, as she had done once before, but it did not happen, nor did it come the next day or the next.

The gold double eagle had been kept.