“Don’t speak of it to me,” cried Janice, wildly. “Do you think we could care for such a thing now?”
“Property ’s property,” said Joe, “and ’t is n’t a good thing to forget, no matter what happens. However, that can wait. Now, about my being your lawyer?”
“I will speak to my mother,” replied the girl, sadly, “and let you know her wishes.” And the words were so evidently a dismissal that Bagby took his departure.
Without pausing to mourn over the failure, Janice procured paper and pen, and set about a letter; but it was long in the writing, for again and again the pages were torn up. Finally, in desperation, she let her quill run on, regardless of form, grammar, erasures, or the blurs caused by her own tears, until three sheets had been filled with incoherent prayers and promises. “If only you can save him,” one read, “nothing you ask of me, even to disobeying him, even to running off with you, will I refuse. I will be your very slave.” If ever a proud girl humbled herself, Janice did so in this appeal.
The reading of the missive was begun the next day by an officer seated in the “public” of the City Tavern of Philadelphia, but after a very few lines he rose and carried it to his own room, and there completed it. Then folding it up, he thrust it into his pocket, once more descended the stairs, and inquired of the tavern-keeper: “’T was reported that General Lee came to town yesterday; dost know where he lodges?”
“I hearn he was at the Indian King.”
“Thanks,” responded the questioner, and then asked: “One thing more. Hast a stout riding-whip you can lend me for a few minutes?”
“Ay, Colonel Brereton. Take any that suits you from the rack.”
The implement secured, the officer set out down the street, with a look that boded ill for somebody.
Five minutes later, with one hand held behind his back, he stood in the doorway of the public room of another ordinary, arriving just in time to hear a man proclaim in stentorian tones:—