There was no sign of inward tumult under her smooth, flushed mask as she lay back, elbows set on the chair’s padded arms, hands clasped together. Over them she gazed serenely at the signal officer. And he looked back at her.
“Other spies come to headquarters,” he said, “but you are the only one so far who embodies my ideal of the highly mysterious Special Messenger.”
“Do I appear mysterious?”
“Not unattractively so,” he said, smiling.
“I have heard,” she said, “that the Union spy whom they call the Special Messenger is middle-aged and fat.”
“I’ve heard that, too,” he nodded, with a twinkle in his gray eyes—“and I’ve heard also that she’s red-headed, peppered with freckles, and—according to report—bow-legged from too many cross-saddles.”
“Please observe my single spur,” she said, extending her slender, booted foot; “and you will notice that I don’t fit that passport.”
“My idea of her passport itemizes every feature you possess,” he said, laughing; “five feet seven; dark hair, brown eyes, regular features, small, well-shaped hands——”
“Please—Captain West!”
“I beg your pardon—” very serious.