“Wait,” interrupted Edith; “what are you going to do?” “I am going to let him get this paper,” said Arrelsford, coming back to the table. “He will know what they want him to do, and then we’ll see him try to do it.” “You are going to spy on him, are you?” “I am going to prove what he is.” “Then prove it openly at once. It is shameful to let such a suspicion rest upon an honourable man. Let him come in here, and——” “It is impossible.” “Then do something, something, but do it now!” cried the girl. “You will soon know that he is innocent, you must know it. Wait! You say the prisoner in Libby is his brother—that’s what you said—his brother. Bring him here. Go to the prison and bring that man here.” “What?” “Let them meet. Bring them face to face, then you can see whether——” “You mean bring them together here?” “Yes.” “As if the prisoner were trying to escape?” “Exactly.” “There is something in that,” said Arrelsford; “when do you suggest——” “Now.” “I am willing to try it, but it depends upon you. Can you keep Thorne here?” “I can.” “It won’t take more than half an hour. Be out there on the veranda. When I tap on the glass bring him into this room and leave him alone. And I can rely upon you to give him no hint or sign that we suspect——” “Mr. Arrelsford!” said the girl, indignant and haughty, and her mother stepped swiftly toward her, looking at him contemptuously, as if he should have known that such an action would be impossible for either of them. Arrelsford gazed at them a minute or two, smiled triumphantly, and passed out of the room. “Mamma, mamma!” moaned the girl, her eyes shut, her hand extended. “Mamma,” she repeated in anguish. “I am here, Edith dear; I am here,” said Mrs. Varney, coming toward her and taking her tenderly in her arms. “Do you think—do you think—that he—he could be what they say?” Her hand fell upon the commission in her belt “This commission I got for him this afternoon——” “Yes?” “The commission, you know, from the President, for the Telegraph Service—why, he refused to take it,” her voice rose and rang triumphantly through the room; “he refused to take it! That doesn’t look as if he wanted to use the telegraph to betray us.” “Refused! That’s impossible!” said her mother. “He said that it was for me that he couldn’t take it.” “For you! Then it is true,” answered Mrs. Varney. “No, no,” said the girl; “don’t say it.” “Yes,” said her mother; “the infamous——” The girl tried to stifle with her hand upon her mother’s lips the words, but Mrs. Varney shook off her hand. “The spy, the traitor,” she added witheringly.