"Much of it, yes," he admitted.
"The plan of attack?--the orders sent me?"
His expression answered.
"And what were you going to do with this information, Major Hardy?"
"Nothing. I considered myself a prisoner on parole. I merely proposed asking your permission to leave the house with my daughter before hostilities began. I started down the stairs for that purpose."
"And Billie?"
"I told her this, and sent her to her room after some things. Before I got down you had disappeared, and I returned up stairs. She was not in her room, nor could I find a trace of her."
I thought rapidly, staring into his bewildered face, insensibly listening to the continuous roar without. It was tragedy within tragedy, the threads of war and love inextricably tangled. What had occurred here during that minute or two? Had she left voluntarily, inspired by some wild hope of service to the South? Did that mysterious figure, attired in our uniform, have anything to do with her disappearance? Did Hardy know, or suspect more than he had already told? By what means could she have left the house? If she had not left where could she remain concealed? Each query only served to make the situation more complicated, more difficult to solve. To no one of them could I find an answer.
"Major, did you tell your daughter why you could not carry that information to your own people?-- that you considered yourself a parolled prisoner?"
He hesitated, realizing now what it was I was seeking to discover.