"You needn't. It's best for us both," insisted Al. "Now go; time is precious, and good luck to you."
They gripped each other's hands in a firm farewell and Al stepped to the cellar door and opened it. Then he turned and shook his finger at Wallace smilingly.
"Mind, now; if you're paroled, I'll see you in St. Louis inside of ten days, and we'll have lemonade together, with ice in it, at the ice-cream parlor near Third and Olive Streets."
He closed the door behind him and felt his way down the cellar stairs, his heart by no means as light as he had tried to make Wallace believe.
"Mrs. Falkner! Mrs. Falkner!" he called, softly, on reaching the bottom.
There was no answer.
"Mrs. Falkner!" Al repeated. "It's Al Briscoe. I'm in trouble."
He heard the rustle of her dress as she came toward him, saying,
"Al Briscoe? In trouble?"
"Yes," he answered. "The city has just surrendered. I have been fighting, though I am not an enlisted soldier, and if the Confederates catch me I shall very likely be shot. Will you hide me for a little while until I can escape from the city?"