“We should never think of making any calculation on the action of an officer of such infinite resources as General Brant,” said Lagrange ironically.
“You will, no doubt, have an opportunity of stating your own case to the division commander,” continued Brant, with an unmoved face. “And,” he continued, turning for the first time to Captain Faulkner, “when you tell the commander what I believe to be the fact—from your name and resemblance—that you are a relation of the young lady who for the last three weeks has been an inmate of this house under a pass from Washington, you will, I have no doubt, favorably explain your own propinquity to my lines.”
“My sister Tilly!” said the young officer impulsively. “But she is no longer here. She passed through the lines back to Washington yesterday. No,” he added, with a light laugh, “I'm afraid that excuse won't count for to-day.”
A sudden frown upon the face of the elder officer, added to the perfect ingenuousness of Faulkner's speech, satisfied Brant that he had not only elicited the truth, but that Miss Faulkner had been successful. But he was sincere in his suggestion that her relationship to the young officer would incline the division commander to look leniently upon his fault, for he was conscious of a singular satisfaction in thus being able to serve her. Of the real object of the two men before him he had no doubt. They were “the friends” of his wife, who were waiting for her outside the lines! Chance alone had saved her from being arrested with them, with the consequent exposure of her treachery before his own men, who, as yet, had no proof of her guilt, nor any suspicion of her actual identity. Meanwhile his own chance of conveying her with safety beyond his lines was not affected by the incident; the prisoners dare not reveal what they knew of her, and it was with a grim triumph that he thought of compassing her escape without their aid. Nothing of this, however, was visible in his face, which the younger man watched with a kind of boyish curiosity, while Colonel Lagrange regarded the ceiling with a politely repressed yawn. “I regret,” concluded Brant, as he summoned the officer of the guard, “that I shall have to deprive you of each other's company during the time you are here; but I shall see that you, separately, want for nothing in your confinement.”
“If this is with a view to separate interrogatory, general, I can retire now,” said Lagrange, rising, with ironical politeness.
“I believe I have all the information I require,” returned Brant, with undisturbed composure. Giving the necessary orders to his subaltern, he acknowledged with equal calm the formal salutes of the two prisoners as they were led away, and returned quickly to his bedroom above. He paused instinctively for a moment before the closed door, and listened. There was no sound from within. He unlocked the door, and opened it.
So quiet was the interior that for an instant, without glancing at the bed, he cast a quick look at the window, which, till then, he had forgotten, and which he remembered gave upon the veranda roof. But it was still closed, and as he approached the bed, he saw his wife still lying there, in the attitude in which he had left her. But her eyes were ringed, and slightly filmed, as if with recent tears.
It was perhaps this circumstance that softened his voice, still harsh with command, as he said,—
“I suppose you knew those two men?”
“Yes.”