And all party politics seemed for a moment forgotten in the interest felt in this domestic calamity. “Sit down, Mr. Goldsborough! Do sit down and compose yourself! And let us hear the details of this flight,” entreated the doctor. “No, I cannot sit down! And I will not compose myself! I will pursue the abductor of my daughter, and shoot him wherever I find him.” “But how do you know who was the abductor, if it comes to that?” inquired the farmer. “Oh! I know well enough! A fellow, answering to the description of this Corsoni, was seen lurking around the convent all day yesterday! Besides, you know, she would have run off with no one else! Good-by, Fielding! Good-by, Rosenthal! Young ladies, your servant!” said Mr. Goldsborough, seizing up his hat and gloves, and leaving the house before the startled company had recovered from their astonishment. CHAPTER XXII. ANOTHER TRIAL FOR ELFIE. All unknown and unsuspected by the good Lutheran minister, his house became the headquarters of consultation, and he became involved in a network of circumstantial evidence that at a later period might have brought him before a military commission, or placed him on the scaffold. He had discovered that Mr. Goldsborough was a Secessionist; and for that reason he was very glad to get rid of that gentleman’s presence; but he knew that Farmer Fielding was a good Union man, and he believed that Colonel Eastworth was as loyal as himself—Ernest Rosenthal. Colonel Eastworth, over and above his strong love for the Lutheran minister’s beautiful child, had another great motive for remaining the guest of Dr. Rosenthal; it was this: That under the cover of one who was so well known to be a stanch and loyal man, he might, with less suspicion and more safety, perfect certain plans. Under this roof he daily and nightly received many visitors with whom he held long interviews in his own rooms. Dr. Rosenthal never dreamed of inquiring into the motives, conduct or character of his guest’s visitors. They would come at almost any hour of the twenty-four, ring the bell, inquire for Colonel Eastworth, and be shown up to his rooms, either to see him, if he should be in, or to wait for him, if he should be out. And Colonel Eastworth was out a great deal, especially in the evening. At length, so well were his plans organized that his co-conspirators knew very well at what hour to call and find him in; and he would be in his rooms all day busily writing and sending off letters, or receiving visitors; and half the night he would be out. Erminie saw but little of him at this period. One evening, when he came into the drawing-room, before going out, she gently rallied him on what she gayly called his “going on.” “Where are you off to now?” she inquired, with affectionate freedom. “Dear love, the lodge,” he answered, after some little hesitation.