“What’s that?” asked the General.
Thorne stood by the desk listening while the key clicked out the message.
“Adjutant General Chesney,” he spelt out slowly.
“Oh, from the front, then?” said Randolph.
“Yes, sir,” answered Thorne.
“What is he saying!”
Thorne stepped to the table and bent over the clicking key. “His compliments, sir,” he read off slowly. “He asks”—waiting for a few minutes—“for the rest,”—still another pause—“of that despatch—he says it’s of vital importance, sir, and——”
The communication which Thorne had made to General Randolph was in itself of vital importance. The General was too good a soldier not to know the danger of delay in the carrying out of a military manœuvre which was probably part of some general plan of attack or defence to which he was not privy. He made up his mind instantly. He took the despatch from the hand of the Sergeant and turned it over to Thorne again.
“Let him have it,” he said decisively.
The Captain with his heart pounding like mad sat down at the table and seized the key. Was he going to complete the despatch? Was the plan to be carried out? Had he triumphed in the bold and desperately played game by his splendid courage, resourcefulness, and assurance? His eyes shone, the colour came back into his pale cheeks as his hands trembled on the key.