The general returned to his shaving, completed it, came back and examined the papers again.
“That infantry, there,” he said, “are you sure it’s Longstreet’s?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t see Longstreet, did you?”
“Yes, sir; and talked with him.”
The general’s body servant knocked, announcing breakfast, and left the general’s boots and tunic, both carefully brushed. When he had gone out again, the Special Messenger said very quietly:
“I expect to report on the Moray matter before night.”
The general buckled in his belt and hooked up his sword.
“If you can nail that fellow,” he said, speaking very slowly, “I guess you can come pretty close to getting whatever you ask for from Washington.”
For a moment she stood very silent there, her ripped jacket hanging limp over her arm; then, with a pallid smile: