"This is my friend, Mr. Covert," said Mount, fairly sweating cordiality from every pore--"my dear old friend, Mr. Covert--" "Oh," said Beacraft, "I thought he was Sir George Covert.... And yonder stands your dear old friend Timothy Murphy, I suppose?" "Exactly," smiled Mount, rubbing his palms in appreciation. The man gave me an evil look. "I don't know you," he said, "but I could guess your business." And to Mount: "What do you want?" "We want to know," said I, "whether Captain Walter Butler is lodging here?" "He was," said Beacraft, grimly; "he left yesterday." "And I hope you like my sto-ry!" hummed Mount, strolling about the room, peeping into closets and cupboards, poking under the bed with his rifle, and finally coming to a halt at the foot of the stairs with his head on one side, like a jay-bird immersed in thought. Murphy, who had quietly entered the cellar, returned empty-handed, and, at a signal from me, stepped outside and seated himself on a chopping-block in the yard, from whence he commanded a view of the house and vicinity. "Now, Mr. Beacraft," I said, "whoever lodges above must come down; and it would be pleasanter for everybody if you carried the invitation." "Do you propose to violate the privacy of my house?" he asked. "I certainly do." "Where is your warrant of authority?" he inquired, fixing his penetrating eyes on mine. "I have my authority from the General commanding this department. My instructions are verbal--my warrant is military necessity. I fear that this explanation must satisfy you." "It does not," he said, doggedly. "That is unfortunate," I observed. "I will give you one more chance to answer my question. What person or persons are on the floor above?" "Captain Butler was there; he departed yesterday with his mother and sister," replied Beacraft, maliciously. "Is that all?" "Miss Brant is there," he muttered. I glanced at Sir George, who had risen to pace the floor, throwing back his military cloak. At sight of his uniform Beacraft's small eyes seemed to dart fire. "What were you doing when we knocked?" I inquired. "Cooking," he replied, tersely. "Then cook breakfast for us all--and Miss Brant," I said. "Mount, help Mr. Beacraft with the corn-bread and boil those eggs. Sir George, I want Murphy to stay outside, so if you would spread the cloth--" "Of course," he said, nervously; and I started up the flimsy wooden stairway, which shook as I mounted. Beacraft's malignant eyes followed me for a moment, then he thrust his hands into his pockets and glowered at Mount, who, whistling cheerfully, squatted before the fireplace, blowing the embers with a pair of home-made bellows. On the floor above, four doors faced the narrow passage-way. I knocked at one. A gentle, sleepy voice answered: "Very well."