When Dorothea hurried back after locking the door she found that Miss Imogene was holding up the young man’s head and had managed to force some of the wine down his throat. A minute later a little color came into his cheek and he smiled up at them in a weak, embarrassed way. “I’m sorry,” he murmured; “I’m an utter idiot to do this—but how did you know I was Larry Stanchfield?” “I knew your father when he was about your age,” Miss Imogene replied gently. “For the moment I was silly enough to take you for him. But we haven’t time to talk of that.” Young Stanchfield struggled to sit up. “This is really unpardonable,” he stammered. “I should not be here at all. I’ll go at once.” “You’ll go as far as the fire,” Miss Imogene pointed out in a tone that admitted of no argument. “For the present you are safe here.” “But I never intended to stay in this room,” he protested, “and it isn’t of my own safety I’m thinking.” “It is what I am thinking of,” Miss Imogene replied. “Although we must get rid of you, or we shall be suspected of not being the staunch Rebels we are. Come over by the fire now and warm yourself.” Miss Imogene spoke lightly, but there was a serious undertone in her voice and the young man, looking first at her and then at Dorothea, nodded his head as if he understood more than her words implied. “You are very good,” he murmured. But he had noted the band of red velvet about Miss Imogene’s throat and Dorothea had caught the expression of comprehension that had passed over his face. “He, thinks Cousin Imogene’s a Red String, too,” she thought, and then, “How do I know that she isn’t?” With an effort Stanchfield rose and staggered toward the fireplace; but when Miss Ivory would have steadied him with a hand on his arm he winced. “Not that arm,” he muttered; “it’s—it’s scratched a bit.” “I’m sorry,” Miss Imogene said; “I shall have a look at it presently, but first of all we must get you some strengthening food.” They seated him in front of the fire, and he leaned back with a sigh of relief; but he seemed so weak that Miss Imogene looked at him anxiously. “There is a flask in my room and glass of milk,” Miss Imogene spoke half to herself. “Oh, pray don’t trouble,” Stanchfield faltered; and then, before their eyes, he fainted straight away. In the silence that followed they could hear the low-toned murmur of men’s voices and, suddenly, the sound of a closing door far down the hall. Miss Imogene and Dorothea looked at each other apprehensively, for a moment. “Lock it, after me, child,” Miss Imogene whispered, starting toward the door with an air of determination, “and don’t let any one in till I come back. I’ll only be a minute.” She left the room swiftly, after a glance up and down the hall, and Dorothea turned the key and waited. A little later there came a knock and, expecting Miss Imogene’s return, she opened noiselessly. Before her stood Val Tracy.