The detective, his vision of a $500 douceur melting into thin air, pensively walked off to try fortune on a new beat.
Clara, now that the danger was over, began to tremble. Hitherto she had not quailed. Leaving the shop, she took the nearest way to the hotel. For the last twenty-four hours agitation and excitement had prevented her taking food. Wretchedly faint, she stopped and took hold of an iron lamppost for support.
An officer in the Confederate uniform, seeing she was ill, said, “Mademoiselle, you need help. Allow me to escort you home.”
Dreading lest she should fall, through feebleness, into worse hands, Clara thanked him and took his proffered arm. “To the St. Charles, sir, if you please.”
“I myself stop at the St. Charles. Allow me to introduce myself: Robert Onslow, Captain in Company D, Wigman Regiment. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of assisting?”
“Miss Brown. I’m stopping a few days with my friend, Miss Tremaine.”
“Indeed! I was to call on her this evening. We may renew our acquaintance.”
“Perhaps.”
Clara suddenly put down her veil. Approaching slowly like a fate, rolled on the splendid barouche of Mr. Ratcliff. He sat with arms folded and was smoking a cigar. Clara fancied she saw arrogance, hate, disappointment, rage, all written in his countenance. Without moving his arms, he bowed carelessly to Onslow.
“That’s one of the prime managers of the secession movement.”