"You are quite safe," remarked his host, rather annoyed.
"Oh, that I take for granted."
James Penhallow said, "Sit down. There are cigars."
"A match please. Cigars are rare luxuries with us."
As the Confederate waited for the sulphur of the match to pass away,
Penhallow took note of the slight, delicate figure, the blue eyes like
Ann's, the well-bred face. Filling his own pipe he sat down with his back
to the window, facing his brother-in-law.
"You are very comfortable here, James. How is my sister, and your beauty,
Leila?"
"Well—very well. But let us talk a little. You are a spy in our uniform."
"That is obvious enough. I am one of many in your Departments and outside of them. What do you propose? I am sorry we met."
"My duty is to turn you over to the Provost-marshal."
"Of course, but alas! my dear James, there is my sister—you won't do it—no one would under the circumstances. What the deuce made you speak to me? You put us both in an awkward position. You became responsible for a duty you can't fulfil. I am really most sorry for you. It was a bit of bad luck."