This was not an easy thing to accomplish, for the night promised to be very dark, the roads were muddy, and the weather unusually cold for that genial climate. But by offering a generous sum, for he was anxious to have the ordeal before them over as soon as possible, Mr. Huntress succeeded in getting a man to take them to their destination.
It was seven o’clock when they at last reached the home of the proud Southerner, and the two men alighted before the door with grave faces, and nerves that were none too steady, in contemplation of the interview before them.
“Yes, sar, Massa Mapleson’s home, sah,” the dusky-skinned servant replied to Mr. Huntress’ inquiry, and then obsequiously led the way through the magnificent hall, which divided the stately mansion through the center, to a spacious and richly furnished library at its lower end.
“A. D. Huntress and Son,” Mr. Huntress wrote on a card, and handed it to the servant to be given to his master, and then they sat down to await his coming.
Five minutes later—though it seemed as many hours to those impatient men—Colonel Mapleson appeared in the door-way, opposite August Huntress.
He was a tall, rather spare man, with a finely shaped head proudly poised above a pair of military looking shoulders, a massive brow, surmounted by a wealth of iron-gray hair, regular, handsome, yet rather haughty features, a keen, eagle-glancing blue eye, and an energetic manner.
Geoffrey recognized him instantly. It was the same man whom he had met in Congress Park at Saratoga.
“Ah! Mr. Huntress,” remarked the gentleman, courteously, as his visitor arose to greet him; “glad to see you, sir—glad to see you!”
Then espying Geoffrey whom, having been seated on his right and a little back of him as he entered, he had not at first seen, he started, his face lighted with pleasure, and he went toward him with outstretched hand, exclaiming, heartily:
“Holloa! Everet! where on earth did you drop from? I supposed you still in New York having a gay time.”