"Good friend! True hero! Hail and farewell." [Illustration: Terry, who had taken careful aim, now fired. Broderick staggered, recovered himself. Slowly he sank to one knee.] CHAPTER LV THE SOUTHERN PLOT America stood on war's threshold. Even in the West one felt its imminence. The Republican victory had been like a slap in the face to slave-holding democracy. Its strongholds were secretly arming, mobilizing, drilling. And though Lincoln wisely held his peace--warned all the States which hummed with wild secession talk that their aggression alone could disrupt the Union--the wily Stanton, through the machinery of the War Department, prepared with quiet grimness for the coming struggle. Herbert Waters, after Broderick's death, returned to Windham's office. He was a full-fledged lawyer now, more of a partner than an employee. Waters was of Southern antecedents, a native of Kentucky, a friend, almost a protégé, of General Albert Sydney Johnson, commanding the military district of the Pacific. One evening in January, 1861, he dined with the Windhams. Early in the evening Benito was called out to the bedside of an ailing client, who desired him to write a will. After he was gone, young Waters turned to Alice. "You were a friend of Mr. Broderick's," he said impulsively. "He often spoke of you ... and once, not long before he died, he said to me: 'Herbert, when your soul's in trouble, go to Alice Windham ...'" Mrs. Windham put aside her knitting rather hastily, rose and walked to the window. She made no answer. Presently the boy continued: "That time has come--now--Mrs. Windham." Alice crossed the room and laid a hand upon his shoulder. "Herbert! What's the matter?" His voice sank almost to a whisper. "There's a plot to overthrow the government in California. I'm a part of it.... I don't know what to do." "You don't mean ... you're a traitor?" she asked unbelievably. "I suppose I am or must be--to some one," he said wearily. "I'm caught in a net, Mrs. Windham. Will you help me get out? Advise me ... as you did him. Oh, I know what you meant to Mr. Broderick. Your faith, your counsel!" "Please," said Alice sharply. "We won't speak of that. What can I do for YOU?" "I beg your pardon. I'm a thoughtless ass ... that's why I got into the pickle probably. They asked me to join...." "They? Who?" she asked. "Is he--Benito--?" "Oh, no, Benito's out of it completely. I'm a Southern boy, you know. That's why they let me in; a lot of them have money. A man we call 'The President' is our chief. And there's a committee of thirty, each of whom is pledged to organize a fighting force; a hundred men."