“That will do from you, sir,” said the General, “you have made enough trouble as it is. I suppose you claim that this is a forgery, too——” “Let me tell you, sir,” persisted the Secret Service Agent. “You have told me enough as it is. Sergeant, take him over to headquarters.” “Fall in there!” cried the Sergeant of the Guard. “Two of you take the prisoner. Forward, march!” Two men seized Arrelsford, and the rest of them closed about him. To do the man justice, he made a violent struggle and was only marched out at the point of the bayonet, protesting and crying: “For God’s sake, he’s in the Yankee Secret Service! He’ll send that despatch out. His brother brought in the signal to-night!” All the way down the corridor he could be heard yelling and struggling. General Randolph paid not the slightest attention to him. He stepped over to the telegraph table beside which Thorne stood—and with all the force of which he was capable the young man could hardly control the trembling of his knees. “Major Thorne,” he said reprovingly as Thorne saluted him, “all this delay has been your own fault. If you had only had sense enough to mention this before we would have been saved a damned lot of trouble. There’s your commission, sir.” He handed it to Thorne, who saluted him again as one in a dream. “Come, gentlemen,” he said to his officers, “I can’t understand why they have to be so cursed shy about their Secret Service orders! Lieutenant Foray?” “Yes, sir.” “Take your orders from Major Thorne.” “Yes, sir,” returned Foray. “Good-night,” said the General, forgetful of the fact apparently that Edith Varney was still standing by the window. “Good-night, sir,” answered Thorne. Foray moved over to the table at the right, while Thorne leaped to his former position, and his hand sought the key. At last he could send his message, there was nothing to prevent him or interrupt him now, he was in command. Could he get it through? For a moment he forgot everything but that, as he clicked out the call again, but he had scarcely pressed the button when Edith Varney stepped to his side. “Captain Thorne,” she said in a low voice, giving him the old title. He looked up at her, stopping a moment. “What I have done gives you time to escape from Richmond,” she continued. “Escape!” whispered Thorne, clicking the key again. “Impossible!” “Oh,” said the girl, laying her hand on his arm, “you wouldn’t do it—now!” And again the man’s fingers remained poised over the key as he stared at her. “I gave it to you to—to save your life. I didn’t think you’d use it for anything else. Oh! You wouldn’t!” Her voice in its low whisper was agonising. If her face had been white before, what could be said of it now? In a flash Thorne saw all. She had been confident of his guilt, and she had sought to save his life because she loved him, and now because she loved her country she sought to save that too.