"I'm sorry, sir," she said, quite ready to play her game again. "But our Rebel scouts usually neglect to mention their precise intentions."
"Perhaps. If this one went at all. Is he still here?"
"I should imagine—not."
"Then he did go this way—to the river crossing?"
Once more he caught and held her eyes and thought he would read the truth in spite of anything she might say.
But while he looked he saw her strained face suddenly relax—saw the anxiety flee from her eyes—saw heart and soul take on new life. From far away across the river had come some faint popping sounds, regularly spaced—three shots.
"Ah!" he said, in wonder. "What is that?"
"It sounds," laughed Herbert Cary's wife, "like firing. But I think it is a friend of mine saluting me—from the safe side of the river. Good evening, Colonel," and she swept by him. She could go find Virgie now.
Just then came the sound of a horse, galloping. Up the road came a trooper, white with dust, his animal flecked with foam.
"For Colonel Morrison. Urgent," he rasped from a dry throat, as he thudded across the lawn and dismounted. "From headquarters," and he thrust out a dispatch, "I'm ordered to return with your detachment."