Macgreggor hesitated, as he looked at George and Watson. Then he answered fiercely, handling his pistol ominously the meanwhile: "We've but one chance--and we'll take it! We will never let you leave this room alive, promise or no promise. You are unarmed, and there are _three_ of us, armed." The Major did not seem to be at all startled. He merely changed the position of his legs, as he answered: "Killing me wouldn't do you any good, my boy! If you do shoot me before I can escape from the room the shooting would only alarm the house--the cavalry would be summoned by Mrs. Page, and you would find yourself worse off even than you are now." Watson touched Macgreggor on the shoulder. "The Major's right," he said; "we would only be shooting down a man in cold blood, and gaining nothing by it. He has trapped us--and, so long as those plagued cavalrymen are so near, we had better submit. I think I've got as much courage as the next man, but I don't believe in butting one's head against a stone wall." Macgreggor sullenly replaced his pistol. He could not but see the force of Watson's reasoning. The Major rose to his feet. He was smiling away again, as if he were enjoying himself. "We surrender!" announced Watson with a woebegone expression on his strong face. "You'll admit," said Lightfoot, "that I was too clever for you?" There was no answer. George picked up Waggie. "Can I take my dog along with us, wherever we go?" he asked. [Illustration: The Major Merely Changed the Position of His Legs] The Major suddenly advanced towards George, and patted the tiny animal. "Hello! Waggie, how are you, old man?" he cried. George gasped. "How on earth did you know Waggie's name?" he asked. For Waggie had been chewing at a bone on the floor ever since the entrance of the Confederate, and his master had not addressed a word to him during that time. "I know his name almost as well as I do yours, George Knight," said Lightfoot. In his excitement George dropped Waggie on a chair. The three Northerners heard this last announcement with open-mouthed astonishment. Lightfoot burst into a great laugh that made the mystery the more intense. "Why, comrades," he cried, "I ought to go on the stage; I had no idea I was such a good actor. Don't you know your friend, Walter Jenks?" The Southern accent of the speaker had suddenly disappeared. The listeners stood dumfounded. Then the whole situation dawned upon them. They had been most gloriously and successfully duped. This Major Lightfoot was none other than Walter Jenks, a sergeant from General Mitchell's camp, whom Andrews had sent out on the bridge-burning party. He had shaved off his beard, and assumed a Southern accent (something he was able to do because he was a Marylander), so that the guests at the Page mansion had failed to recognize him.