“Why did the man assault you?” he demanded, and Delaven showed the long envelope.
“He was trying to rob me of a letter let fall from the balcony above, bad luck to him!”
At that moment the orderly came running back to say that the man had got away; a horse had been tied over in the pines, they could hear the beat of its hoofs now on the big road.
“Get a horse and follow him,” ordered Masterson briefly, as McVeigh and Clarkson came down the stairs and past Margeret. “Arrest him, shoot him, fetch him back some way!” Then he turned again to the would-be cavalier of romance, who was surveying the guitar disconsolately.
“Doctor Delaven, what are you doing in that uniform?”
“I was about to give a concert,” returned that individual, who made a grotesque figure in the borrowed suit, a world too large for him.
McVeigh laughed as he heard the reply and surveyed the speaker. Masterson’s persistent search for spies had evidently spoiled Delaven’s serenade.
Mrs. McVeigh opened a window and asked what the trouble was, and Masterson assured her it was only an accident––his revolver had gone off, but no one was hurt, on which assurance she said good night and closed the window, while the group stood looking at each other questioningly. Masterson’s manner showed that it was something more than an accident.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked McVeigh in a guarded tone; and Masterson pointed to the package in Delaven’s hand.