“It is now the gossip in Richmond,” said Mrs. Prescott to her son as they sat together before the fire a day or two later, “that General Wood makes an unusually long stay here for a man who loves the saddle and war as he does.”

“Who says so, mother?”

“Well, many people.”

“Who, for instance?”

“Well, the Secretary, Mr. Sefton, as a most shining instance, and he is a man of such acute perceptions that he ought to know.”

Prescott was silent.

“They say that Mr. Sefton wants something that somebody else wants,” she continued. “A while back it was another person whom he regarded as the opponent to his wish, but now he seems to have transferred the rivalry to General Wood. I wonder if he is right.”

She gazed over her knitting needles into the fire as if she would read the answer in the coals, but Prescott himself did not assist her, though he wondered at what his mother was aiming. Was she seeking to arouse him to greater vigour in his suit? Well, he loved Helen Harley, and he had loved her ever since they were little boy and little girl together, but that was no reason why he should shout his love to all Richmond. Sefton and Wood might shout theirs, but perhaps he should fare better if he were more quiet.

Lonely and abstracted, Prescott wandered about the city that evening, and when the hour seemed suitable, bending his head to the northern blast, he turned willing steps once more to the little house in the cross street, wondering meanwhile what its two inmates were doing and how they fared.

As he went along and heard the wind moaning among the houses he had the feeling that he was watched. He looked ahead and saw nothing; he looked back and saw nothing; then he told himself it was only the wind rattling among loose boards, but his fancy refused to credit his own words. This feeling that he was watched, spied upon, had been with him several days, but he did not realize it fully until the present moment, when he was again upon a delicate errand, one perhaps involving a bit of unfaithfulness to the cause for which he fought. He, the bold Captain, the veteran of thirty battles, shook slightly and then told himself courageously that it was not a nervous chill, but the cold. Yet he looked around fearfully and wished to hear other footsteps, to see other faces and to feel that he was not alone on such a cold and dark night alone save for the unknown who watched him. At the thought he looked about again, but there was nothing, not even the faintest echo of a footfall.

The chill, the feeling of oppression passed for the time and he hastened to the side street and the little house. It was too dark for him to tell whether any wisp of smoke rose from the chimney, and no light shone from the window. He opened the little gate and passed into the little yard where the snow seemed to be yet unbroken. Then he slipped two of the beautiful gold double eagles under the door and almost ran away, the feeling that he was watched returning to him and hanging on his back like crime on the mind of the guilty.

Prescott’s early ancestors had been great borderers, renowned Indian fighters and adepts in the ways of the forest, when the red men, silent and tenacious, followed upon their tracks for days and it was necessary to practise every art to throw off the pursuers, unseen but known to be there. Unconsciously a thin strain of heredity now came into play, and he began to wind about the city before going home, turning suddenly from one street into another, and gliding swiftly now and then in the darkest shadow, making it difficult for pursuer, if pursuer he had, to follow him.

He did not reach home until nearly two hours after he had left the cottage, and then his fingers and ears were blue and almost stiff with cold.

He wandered into the streets again the next morning, and ere long saw a slender figure ahead of him walking with decision and purpose. Despite the distance and the vagueness of her form he knew that it was Miss Grayson, and he followed more briskly, drawn by curiosity and a resolution to gratify it.

She went to one of the markets and began to barter for food, driving a sharp bargain and taking her time. Prescott loitered near and at last came very close. There were several others standing about, but if she noticed and recognized the Captain she gave no sign, going on imperturbably with her bargaining.

Prescott thought once or twice of speaking to her, but he concluded that it was better to wait, letting her make the advances if she would. He was glad of his decision a few minutes later, when he saw a new figure approaching.

The new arrival was Mr. Sefton, a fur-lined cloak drawn high around his neck and his face as usual bland and smiling. He nodded to Prescott and then looked at Miss Grayson, but for the moment said nothing, standing by as if he preferred to wait for whatever he had in mind.

Miss Grayson finished her purchases, and drawing her purse took forth the money for payment. A yellow gleam caught Prescott’s eye and he recognized one of his double eagles. The knowledge sent a thrill through him, but he still stood in silence, glancing casually about him and waiting for one of the others to speak first.

Miss Grayson received her change and her packages and turned to go away, when she was interrupted by the Secretary, with no expression whatever showing through his blandness and his smiles.

“It is Miss Grayson, is it not?” he said smoothly.

She turned upon him a cold and inquiring look.

“I am Mr. Sefton of the Treasurer’s office,” he said in the same even tones smooth with the smoothness of metal. “Perhaps it is too much to hope that you have heard of me.”

“I have heard of you,” she said with increasing coldness.

“And I of you,” he continued. “Who in Richmond has not heard of Miss Charlotte Grayson, the gallant champion of the Northern Cause and of the Union of the States forever? I do not speak invidiously. On the contrary, I honour you; from my heart I do, Miss Grayson. Any woman who has the courage amid a hostile population to cling to what she believes is the right, even if it be the wrong, is entitled to our homage and respect.”

He made a bow, not too low, then raised his hand in a detaining gesture when Miss Grayson turned to go.

“You are more fortunate than we we who are in our own house Miss Grayson,” he said. “You pay in gold and with a large gold piece, too. Excuse me, but I could not help noticing.”

Prescott saw a quiver on her lips and a sudden look of terror in her eyes; but both disappeared instantly and her features remained rigid and haughty.

“Mr. Sefton,” she said icily, “I am a woman, alone in the world and, as you say, amid a hostile population; but my private affairs are my own.”

There was no change in the Secretary’s countenance; he was still bland, smiling, purring like a cat.

“Your private affairs, Miss Grayson,” he said, “of course! None would think of questioning that statement. But how about affairs that are not private? There are certain public duties, owed by all of us in a time like this.”

“You have searched my house,” she said in the same cold tones; “you have exposed me to that indignity, and now I ask you to leave me alone.”

“Miss Grayson,” he said, “I would not trouble you, but the sight of gold, freshly coined gold like that and of so great a value, arouses my suspicions. It makes a question spring up in my mind, and that question is, how did you get it? Here is my friend, Captain Prescott; he, too, no doubt, is interested, or perhaps you know him already.”

It was said so easily and carelessly that Prescott reproved himself when he feared a double meaning lurking under the Secretary’s words. Nervousness or incaution on the part of Miss Grayson might betray much. But the look she turned upon Prescott was like that with which she had favoured the Secretary chilly, uncompromising and hostile.

“I do not know your friend,” she said.

“But he was with the officer who searched your house,” said the Secretary.

“A good reason why I should not know him.”

The Secretary smiled.

“Captain Prescott,” he said, “you are unfortunate. You do not seem to be on the road to Miss Grayson’s favour.”

“The lady does not know me, Mr. Sefton,” said Prescott, “and it cannot be any question of either favour or disfavour.”

The Secretary was now gazing at Miss Grayson, and Prescott used the chance to study his face. This casual but constant treading of the Secretary upon dangerous ground annoyed and alarmed him. How much did he know, if anything? Robert would rather be in the power of any other man than the one before him.

When he had sought in vain to read that immovable face, to gather there some intimation of his purpose, the old feeling of fear, the feeling that had haunted him the night before when he went to the cottage, came over him again. The same chill struck him to the marrow, but his will and pride were too strong to let it prevail. It was still a calm face that he showed to the lady and the Secretary.

“If you have not known Captain Prescott before, you should know him now,” the Secretary was saying. “A gallant officer, as he has proved on many battlefields, and a man of intelligence and feeling. Moreover, he is a fair enemy.”

Prescott bowed slightly at the compliment, but Miss Grayson was immovable. Apparently the history and character of Captain Robert Prescott, C. S. A., were of no earthly interest to her, and Prescott, looking at her, was uncertain if the indifference were not real as well as apparent.

“Mr. Sefton,” said Miss Grayson, “you asked an explanation and I said that I had none to give, nor have I. You can have me arrested if you wish, and I await your order.”

“Not at all, Miss Grayson,” replied the Secretary; “let the explanation be deferred.”

“Then,” she said with unchanging coldness, “I take pleasure in bidding you good-day.”

“Good-day,” rejoined the Secretary, and Prescott politely added his own.

Miss Grayson, without another word, gathered up her bundles and left.

“Slumbering fire,” said the Secretary, looking after her.

“Is she to be blamed for it?” said Prescott.

“Did my tone imply criticism?” the Secretary asked, looking at
Prescott.