Mrs. Page led the party into a great colonial hallway, embellished with family portraits. “By-the-way,” she added, “there is a Confederate officer in the house now—Major Lightfoot, of the —th Virginia Regiment. He reached here this morning from Richmond and goes to Chattanooga this afternoon on a special mission.”
Watson bit his lip. “We’re coming to too close quarters with the enemy,” he thought, and he felt like retreating from the mansion with his companions. But it was too late. Such a move would only excite suspicion, or, worse still, lead to pursuit. “We must face the thing through,” he muttered, “and trust to our wits.”
Mrs. Page ushered the strangers, including the delighted Waggie, into a large, handsomely paneled dining-room on the left of the hallway. She made them gather around an unset table. “Sit here for a few minutes,” she said, “and the servants will bring you the best that Page Manor can offer you. In the meantime, I’ll send Major Lightfoot to see you. He may be able to help you in some way.”
She closed the door and was gone. “I wish this Major Lightfoot, whoever he is, was in Patagonia at the present moment,” whispered Watson. “It’s easy enough to deceive the Southern country bumpkins, and make them think you are Confederates, but when you get among people with more intelligence, like officers——”
“What difference does it make?” interrupted Macgreggor, looking longingly at a mahogany sideboard. “Didn’t you hear Mrs. Page say the Major was a Virginian? He doesn’t know anything about Kentucky.”
“That’s lucky,” laughed Watson, “for we don’t either.”
“Hush!” came the warning from George. The door opened, and several negro servants began to bring in a cold dinner. What a meal it was too, when the time came to partake of it, and how grateful the three hungry travelers felt to the mistress of the house. When it had been disposed of, and the servants had left the dining-room, George said, almost under his breath: “Hadn’t we better be off? We have a good number of miles yet, between here and Marietta.”
Watson was about to rise from the table when the door opened to admit a tall, stalwart man of about thirty, whose cold, gray-blue eyes and resolute mouth denoted one who was not to be trifled with. He was dressed in the gray uniform of a Confederate officer, but he had, presumably, left his sword and pistols in another room. The visitors stood up as he entered.
“Glad to see you, my men,” he said, shaking hands with each one.
“Is this Major Lightfoot?” asked Watson, trying to look delighted, but not making a brilliant success of it.