"Come along and hold up my hands for me, Bob," he said. "This is a nasty duty that they've put me to—it's that man Sefton—and I need help when I pry into the affairs of a poor old maid's house—Miss Charlotte Grayson."
Prescott accepted the invitation, because it was given in such a friendly way and because he was drawn on by curiosity—a desire to see the issue. It might be that Miss Catherwood, reasserting her claim of innocence, would not seek to conceal herself, but it seemed to him that the evidence against her was too strong. And he believed that she would do anything to avoid compromising Miss Grayson.
The house was closed, windows and doors, but a thin gray stream of smoke rose from the chimney. Prescott noticed, with wary eye, that the snow which lay deep on the ground was all white and untrodden in front of the house.
One of the soldiers, obedient to Talbot's order, used the knocker of the door, and after repeating the action twice and thrice and receiving no response, broke the lock with the butt of his rifle.
"I have to do it," said Talbot with an apologetic air to Prescott. "It's orders."
They entered the little drawing-room and found Miss Grayson, sitting in prim and dignified silence, in front of the feeble fire that burned on the hearth. It looked to Prescott like the same fire that was flickering there when first he came, but he believed now it was his coal.
Miss Grayson remained silent, but a high colour glowed in her face and much fire was in her eye. She shot one swift glance at Prescott and then ignored him. Talbot, Prescott and all the soldiers took off their caps and bowed, a courtesy which the haughty old maid ignored without rising.
"Miss Grayson," said Talbot humbly, "we have come to search your house."
"To search it for what?" she asked icily.
"A Northern spy."