"Hold on," retorted the trooper. "First, tell me who you are."
"That's cool," broke in Symonds. "I guess you will show it to us whether you want to or not. Seems to me, young man," glancing closely at the latter's mount, "your horse is mighty fresh, considering you have ridden such a distance."
"We in the cavalry know how to keep our horses in good condition, as well as ride them." The trooper pointed derisively at Symonds' sorry nag standing with drooping head by the roadside.
"None of your lip," growled Symonds angrily; his poor riding was a sore subject. Further discussion was cut short by Lloyd's peremptory order:
"Come; I am waiting; give me the despatch," and, as the trooper still hesitated, "we are agents of the United States Secret Service."
"In that case, sir." The trooper's right hand went to the salute; then he unbuttoned his coat, and fumbled in his belt. "Here it is, sir."
As Lloyd bent forward to take the expected paper, he received instead a crashing blow on the temple from the butt end of a revolver, which sent him reeling from the saddle. At the same time, Symonds, who had hold of the trooper's bridle, was lifted off his feet by the sudden rearing of the horse, and before he had collected his wits, he was dashed violently to one side and thrown on the icy ground.
Symonds staggered to his feet, but at that instant the trooper, who was some distance away, swerved suddenly toward the woods, and his broad cavalry hat was jerked from his head by a low-hanging branch. His horse then bolted into the middle of the road, and for a second the trooper's figure was silhouetted against the sky in the brilliant moonlight. A mass of heavy hair had fallen down the rider's back.
"By God! It's a woman!" gasped Symonds, as he clutched his revolver.
A shot rang out, followed by a stifled cry; then silence, save for the galloping hoof beats growing fainter and fainter down the road in the direction of Washington.