"By God!" He snatched up a loaded pistol and rose. That voice had been as close as his skin. "Show yourself," he bawled.
At the far end of the loft a door creaked open and a short slender man, pistol in each hand, came out blinking sleepily. "What in blazes is the matter with you, Jake?"
"Somebody called you, Captain. I could'a sworn it! Somebody right here." He indicated the room with a nervous wave of his pistol. "Used all three of your names too. Like whisperin', it was. Captain, sir—you all right? Sir? There!—you hear 'em? A woman and a man, whisperin' something about a daft sorta gun. Who is it, Captain? How are we hearin' 'em?"
When the hackles rose just so high on Jake Lavender's neck he fainted.
His captain followed suit a few moments later.
... glanced at his watch, climbed respectfully to his feet. "Madam, my pardons but my visitor's visa is up tomorrow noon. I'll have to ride till night to catch the Shenandoah stage or I'll never make my morning steamboat connections to New York."
The artillery major, Peter Hall, bowed gravely to his hostess. "It's extremely kind of such an important personage as yourself, Miss Mosby, to spend a while with a poor foreigner."
He straightened, studied his friend. "Well, Ed, are you in on this project? Our Government needs your help if we are ever to perfect an electric cannon. And you are, remember, still a Union citizen."
"I haven't forgotten, Pete." He regarded Julie Mae's placid face. "It's sort of up to you, Miss Julie. I don't like the idea of bigger and better weapons—you both know me that well, but I guess I hate what the French are doing in Mexico even worse."