“Irishman!” echoed Dorothea, and it was a moment or two before she realized that Stanchfield was talking of Val Tracy. “Did he help you?” she demanded, after a slight pause.
“To be sure he did,” came the ready answer, “and I took for granted he had told you all about it.”
“We have never heard a word of you since that night,” Dorothea informed him. She was so astounded that her thoughts were in a whirl. “Val had helped him after all—but why had he not told them?” Her mind was a chaos. She could reason nothing out.
“Hum, that’s funny,” Larry went on, half to himself. “I supposed of course he had let you know. He was a fine chap, though I must say he didn’t seem awfully cordial about what he did; but he gave me a good horse and set me on my way, and I didn’t think it polite to criticize his manners.”
“But aren’t you running a great risk, now?” Dorothea asked anxiously.
“Not very,” he replied lightly, “and then, if I get into trouble, I trust I may still count upon you to help me out.”
“I don’t think you can count upon me again,” Dorothea answered seriously. “I was willing to save you from prison but I don’t think I could help you defeat the South.”
“Why, aren’t you for the North?” Stanchfield murmured incredulously.
“I’m British,” the girl returned, “but that hasn’t anything to do with it. It wouldn’t be fair for me to accept the hospitality of my aunt and cousins and betray their Cause. Do you think it would?”
“But you’re a Red String,” he replied, as if that made everything all right.