Keith straightened up, looking directly into the fierce questioning eyes.
“I have told you my name—Jack Keith,” he replied, quietly. “Doctor Fairbain knows something of me, but for your further information I will add that when we met before I was Captain Keith, Third Virginia Cavalry, and bearing despatches from Longstreet to Stonewall Jackson.”
The gruff old soldier, half-crazed by the news of his daughter's peril, the gleam of his eyes still revealing uncontrolled temper, stared at the younger face fronting him; then slowly he held out his hand.
“Keith—Keith,” he repeated, as though bringing back the name with an effort. “By God, that's so—old Jefferson Keith's boy—killed at Antietam. And you know Hope?”
“Yes, General.”
He looked about as though dazed, and the sheriff broke in not unkindly.
“Well, Waite, if we are going to search for your daughter we better be at it. Come on, all of you; Miss Maclaire will be safe enough here alone.”
He took hold of Keith's arm, questioning him briefly as they passed down the hall. On the stairs the latter took his turn, still confused by what he had just heard.
“Who is Miss Maclaire?” he asked.
“Phyllis Gale.”