“I regret the necessity, Miss, but I must search the house.”
“You can,” she said, haughtily.
Leaving the soldiers posted around the house, the sergeant and two of the men entered the dwelling, and commenced the search, but it was useless, for no trace of Walter was found. When they came to the door of Helen's room, they found it locked, and yet they heard voices.
“I thought you were dead,” some one was saying. “My sister has mourned you constantly.”
They struck the butts of their guns against the panels of the door, and demanded admission, but no one answered. They pushed it open, and the girl who sat there sprang to her feet, thoroughly frightened, but no one else was in the room.
The three men looked at each other with a puzzled look. There was but one window in the apartment, and that was covered with a mass of clinging vines so dense and thick that they formed a complete mat. They pushed their bayonets through the tangled mass, but no one was there.
Helen gazed at them as if half stupefied. The sergeant courteously raised his cap, and said: “Miss, we are in search of a man whom we think is a spy—he certainly was seen in these grounds.”
“We do not harbor spies, sir.”
“I do not think you do—but he may have used your premises for a hiding-place. I beg your pardon for intruding. Right about face!” to his men, A still more prolonged search of the grounds revealed nothing, and after placing a guard, the remainder left.
But where was Marie? As soon as the soldiers had left the room she went back to Helen, who sat with bowed head, and touching her gently on the arm, she whispered—“Sister.” A tender light shone in Helen's face, but she answered—“Marie, if you only knew how I have injured you—I have not been a sister to you.”