"Yes," said Leslie, looking steadily at Ralston, and with a wicked smile peeping out from under his moustache. "Yes—not only local officials, but Congressmen, judging by the conversation that you held with the Honorable —— ——, under the arches of the Capitol, the night before Lincoln's inauguration."
"What!" cried the Virginian, for once surprised out of his equanimity. "The d—l! You know that?" Then he laughed and grew placid again. The instant after he held out his hand to Leslie. "Leslie, you are keener than I thought, and perhaps it is just as well that we are not to play against each other any more. I am going to Europe by the next steamer from Quebec. It is late—I must go to bed. Let me say good-bye."
"To Europe?" asked Leslie. "Eh? oh! more ships, cotton and tobacco loans, I suppose."
"No!" said Ralston, and his voice sunk into a low tone of concentrated bitterness, very different from the manner he had recently displayed. "No! I am going to Europe to reside. I am done with the Confederate cause, though I hate the Federal as much as ever. It was Virginia I was striving for, not to change the despotism of Lincoln to another and a worse under Jeff Davis. That is enough—once more good night and good-bye!"
"Stop!" said John Crawford, who had stood very near during all this conversation, but taken no part in it. "You have yet a word or two to answer to me. I charged you, a few moments ago, with the abduction of a lady left to my care and under my solemn oath to protect her, by her last living relative. I know there is no law here in my behalf; but as a man answering to a man, what have you to say to this?"
"Her last living relative?" said the Virginian, as if he had heard nothing else of the words addressed to him. "Humph! as I said before, if you are John Crawford, my wife and myself both owe you much, and perhaps you are entitled to be satisfied before you go. Come up-stairs with me a moment, and you shall see what foundation there is for your words."
He led the way from the office of the hotel, through the hall and up a broad flight of steps to the next floor, the two friends following. Turning to the left he tapped with his knuckles on the door of one of the private parlors. There was no answer from within. He tapped again, and still there was no answer. He turned the knob of the door and peeped within, then opened the door a little wider and beckoned to Leslie and Crawford.
"Look!"
The two companions looked within. Two of the burners of the chandelier dependent from the ceiling were lit, and a flood of softened light from the ground-shades filled the apartment. On a sofa at the left sat the red woman of the Rue la Reynie Ogniard, red no longer now, but with the matchless beauty of her face displayed as it had been for a moment when Tom Leslie saw her unmasked at the house on Prince Street. But her dark hair lay all dishevelled; and in the eyes, that seemed to be looking down with a fixed and almost hungry expression of love that could never gaze enough, there were traces of late weeping. At her feet, on a low ottoman, half sat and half knelt Marion Hobart—or she who had so lately borne that name—her blonde hair thrown back from her brow, and her eyes looking up with an answering expression of yearning affection that would need years to satisfy. She was in white, and around her waist were thrown the arms of the other, holding her in a clasp of agonized force and intensity. Neither seemed to be aware that others were near—apparently neither had heard the knock or the opening of the door—for the time they seemed to be alone upon earth. A moment Leslie and Crawford gazed upon this picture: then Ralston closed the door again.
Leslie, who had for an instant started and trembled when the picture met his view, as he had never failed to do in the presence of that marvellous woman, uttered no word as the door closed.