There was a swift confusion of voices; laughter. "If you should hear a pistol shot, Jake, ride quickly back and tell My Lord there was a fracas and you did not dare remain." "I only hope he is garbed in the rebel white and blue--eh, Tony? Then he will yield like an officer and a gentleman; which he is, rebel or no." They were moving away to surround the house. Two were left. "Come on, Tony. We will pound the front knocker in the name of the King. A feather in our cap when we ride him down to the Bowling Green and present him to My Lord...." The voices faded. Larry gripped the girl beside him. "They are British soldiers going to capture Major Atwood! What can we--" * * * * * He never finished. A scream echoed over the somnolent night--a voice from the rear of the house. A man's voice. The red-coated soldiers ran forward. In the field, close against the fence, Tina and Larry were running. From the garden of the house a man was screaming. Then there were other voices; servants were awakening in the upper rooms. The screaming, shouting man rushed through the house. He appeared at the front door, standing between the high white colonial pillars which supported the overhead porch. A yellow light fell upon him through the opened doorway. An old, white-headed negro appeared. Larry and Tina, in the nearby field, stood stricken by the scene. "The marster--the marster--" He shouted this wildly. The British officers ran at him. "You, Thomas, tell us where the major is. We've come for him; we know he's here! Don't lie!" "But the marster--" He choked over it. "A trick, Tony! Egad, if he is trying to trick us--" They leaped to the porch and seized the old negro. "Speak, you devil!" They shook him. "The house is surrounded. He cannot escape!" "But the marster is--is dead! My girl Tollie saw it and then she swooned." He steadied himself. "He--the major's in the garden, Marster Tony. Lying there dead! Murdered! By a ghost, Tollie says. A great, white, shining ghost that came to the garden and murdered him!" * * * * * If you were to delve very closely into certain old records of Revolutionary New York City during the year 1777, you doubtless would find mention of the strange murder of Major Atwood, who, coming from New Jersey, is thought to have crossed the river well to the north of the city, mounted his horse--which, by pre-arrangement, one of his retainers had left for him somewhere to the south of Dykeman's farm--and ridden to his home. He came, not as a spy, but in full uniform. And no sooner had he reached his home when he was strangely murdered. There was only a negro tale of an apparition which had appeared in the garden and murdered the master.