When she had relieved each messenger-bee of its tissue-paper dispatch, she had taken the precaution to number each tiny cylinder, in order of its arrival, from one to nine. Now she counted them, looked over each message, laid them carefully away between the leaves of a pocket notebook, slipped it into the breast of her jacket, and, rising, walked over to John Deal.
“Here is the key to those handcuffs,” she said, hanging it around his neck by the bit of cord on which it was dangling. “Somebody at Sandy River will unlock them for you. But it would be better, Mr. Deal, if you remained outside our lines until this war is ended. I don’t blame you—I’m sorry for you—and for your mistress.”
She set toe to stirrup, mounted easily, fastened her cloak around her.
“I’m really sorry,” she said. “I hope nobody will injure your pretty farm. Good-by.”
Miss Carryl was standing at the end of the beautiful, oak-shaded avenue when the Messenger, arriving at full speed, drew bridle and whirled her horse.
Looking straight into the pretty Southern woman’s eyes, she said gravely:
“Miss Carryl, your bees have double stings. I am very sorry for you—very, very sorry. I hope your property will he respected while you are at Sandy River.”
“What do you mean?” asked Miss Carryl. Over her pale features a painful tremor played.
“You know what I mean. And I am afraid you had better go at once. John Deal is already on his way.”
There was a long silence. Miss Carryl found her voice at length.