"If you care to lie down for a few moments I'll move that youngster off the sofa," he suggested.

But fatigue had vanished; she was terribly awake now.

"Can't you sleep? You are white as death. I'll call you in an hour," he ventured gently, with that soft quality in his voice which sounded so terrible in her ears--so dreadful that she sat up in an uncontrollable tremor of revolt.

"What did you ask me?"

"I thought you might wish to sleep for half an hour----"

Sleep? She shook her head, wondering whether sleep would be more merciful to her at this time to-morrow--or the next day--or ever again.

And all the time, apparently indifferent and distrait, she was studying every detail of this man; his lean features, his lean limbs, his thin, muscular hands, his uniform, the slim, light sabre which he balanced with both hands across his angular knees; the spurred boots, well groomed and well fitted; the polished cross-straps supporting field glasses and holster.

"Are you the famous Special Messenger?--if it is not a military indiscretion to name you," he asked, with a glint of humor in his pleasant eyes. It seemed to her as though something else glimmered there, too--the faintest flash of amused recklessness, as though gayly daring any destiny that might menace. He was younger than she had thought, and it sickened her to realize that he was quite as amiably conscious of her as any well-bred man may be who permits himself to recognize the charm of an attractive woman. All at once a deathly feeling came over her--faintness, which passed--repugnance, which gave birth to a desperate hope. The hope flickered; only the momentary necessity for self-persuasion kept it alive. She must give him every chance; she must take from him none. Not that for one instant she was afraid of herself--of failing in duty; she understood that she _could_ not. But she had not expected this moment to come in such a fashion. No; there was more for her to do, a chance--barely a miracle of chance--that she might be mistaken.

"Why do you think I am the Special Messenger, Captain West?"

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.

"I am not offended.... What time is it, if you please?"

He lifted the candle, looked closely at his watch and informed her; she expressed disbelief, and stretched out her hand for the watch. He may not have noticed it; he returned the watch to his pocket.

She sank back in her chair, very thoughtful. Her glimpse of the monogram on the back of the watch had not lasted long enough. Was it an M or a W she had seen?

The room was hot; the aide on the sofa ceased snoring; one spurred heel had fallen to the floor, where it trailed limply. Once or twice he muttered nonsense in his sleep.

The major of artillery grunted, lifted a congested face from the cradle of his folded arms, blinked at them stupidly, then his heavy, close-clipped head fell into his arms again. The candle glimmered on his tarnished shoulder straps.

A few moments later a door at the end of the room creaked and a fully-lathered visage protruded. Two gimlet eyes surveyed the scene; a mouth all awry from a sabre-slash closed grimly as Captain West rose to attention.

"Is there any fresh water?" asked the general. "There's a dead mouse in this pail."

At the sound of his voice the aide awoke, got onto his feet, took the pail, and wandered off into the house somewhere; the artillery officer rose with a dreadful yawn, and picked up his forage cap and gauntlets.

Then he yawned again, showing every yellow tooth in his head.

The general opened his door wider, standing wiry and erect in boots and breeches. His flannel shirt was open at the throat; lather covered his features, making the distorted smile that crept over them unusually hideous.

"Well, I'm glad to see _you_," he said to the Special Messenger; "come in while I shave. West, is there anything to eat? All right; I'm ready for it. Come in, Messenger, come in!"

She entered, closing the bedroom door; the general shook hands with her slyly, saying, "I'm devilish glad you got through, ma'am. Have any trouble down below?"

"Some, General."

He nodded and began to shave; she stripped off her tight outer jacket, laid it on the table, and, ripping the lining stitches, extracted some maps and shreds of soft paper covered with notes and figures.

Over these, half shaved, the general stooped, razor in hand, eyes following her forefinger as she traced in silence the lines she had drawn. There was no need for her to speak, no reason for him to inquire; her maps were perfectly clear, every route named, every regiment, every battery labeled, every total added up.

Without a word she called his attention to the railroad and the note regarding the number of trains.

"We've got to get at it, somehow," he said. "What are those?"

"Siege batteries, General--on the march."

His mutilated mouth relaxed into a grin.

"They seem to be allfired sure of us. What are they saying down below?"

[Illustration: "'They seem to be allfired sure of us.'"]

"They talk of being in Washington by the fifteenth, sir."

"Oh.... What's that topographical symbol--here?" placing one finger on the map.

"That is the Moray Mansion--or was."

"_Was?_"

"Our cavalry burned it two weeks ago Thursday."

"Find anything to help you there?"

She nodded.

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."