But a few seconds elapsed, when a perfect shout of laughter came from the library. The special detective did not share in it, for he thrust his hands into his pockets with a curse, and Masterson turned to him with a frowning, baffled stare––an absolutely crestfallen manner, as he listened to the following, read in Delaven’s best style:
“To Madame Smith, “Mobile, Ala.:
“The pink morning gown is perfect, but I am in despair over the night robes! I meant you to use the lace, not the 302 embroidery, on them; pray change them at once, and send at the same time the flounced lawn petticoats if completed. I await reply.
“Judithe de Caron.”
CHAPTER XXV.
“Certainly, I apologize,” and Masterson looked utterly crushed by his mistaken zeal; “apologize to every one concerned, collectively and individually.”
Even McVeigh felt sorry for his humiliation, knowing how thoroughly honest he was, how devoted to the cause; and Mrs. McVeigh was disconsolate over “loyal, blundering Phil Masterson,” whom, she could not hope, would remain for the party after what had occurred, and she feared Judithe would keep to her room––who could blame her? Such a scene was enough to prostrate any woman.
But it did not prostrate Judithe. She sent for Mrs. McVeigh, to tell her there must on no account be further hostilities between Colonel McVeigh and Captain Masterson.
“It was all a mistake,” she insisted. “Captain Masterson no doubt only did his duty when presented with the statements of the secret service man; that the statements were incorrect was something Captain Masterson could not, of course, know, and she appreciated the fact that, being a foreigner, she was, in his opinion, possibly, more likely to be imposed upon by servants who were not so loyal to the South as she herself was known to be.”
All this she said in kindly excuse, and Mrs. McVeigh thought her the most magnanimous creature alive.