—C.E. Merrill, Jr.
Claiborne called Oscar through the soft dusk of the April evening. The phalanx of stars marched augustly across the heavens. Claiborne lifted his face gratefully to the cool night breeze, for he was worn with the stress and anxiety of the day, and there remained much to do. The bungalow had been speedily transformed into a hospital. One nurse, borrowed from a convalescent patient at the Springs, was to be reinforced by another summoned by wire from Washington. The Ambassador’s demand to be allowed to remove Armitage to his own house at the Springs had been promptly rejected by the surgeon. A fever had hold of John Armitage, who was ill enough without the wound in his shoulder, and the surgeon moved his traps to the bungalow and took charge of the case. Oscar had brought Claiborne’s bag, and all was now in readiness for the night.
Oscar’s erect figure at salute and his respectful voice brought Claiborne down from the stars.
“We can get rid of the prisoners to-night—yes?”
“At midnight two secret service men will be here from Washington to travel with them to Baltimore to their boat. The Baron and my father arranged it over the telephone from the Springs. The prisoners understand that they are in serious trouble, and have agreed to go quietly. The government agents are discreet men. You brought up the buckboard?”
“But the men should be hanged—for they shot our captain, and he may die.”
The little man spoke with sad cadence. A pathos in his erect, sturdy figure, his lowered tone as he referred to Armitage, touched Claiborne.
“He will get well, Oscar. Everything will seem brighter to-morrow. You had better sleep until it is time to drive to the train.”
Oscar stepped nearer and his voice sank to a whisper.
“I have not forgotten the tall man who died; it is not well for him to go unburied. You are not a Catholic—no?”