and speaking earnestly. A moment later I was left alone in a small room at the end of the upper hall. As the negro closed the door, clicking the latch into place, I glanced about me curiously. It was a narrow room, containing only a chair, a washstand and a single bed, a strip of rag carpet on the floor, and the one window so heavily curtained as probably to render the light invisible from without. I placed my bundle on the chair, and examined the door; it was securely latched, but there was no lock. Then I was not being held a prisoner. Still smoking I sat down on the edge of the bed, my mind busy with the situation.
It occurred to me now with new clearness of vision that Taylor had some special object in his friendliness. If he was a Union spy his natural preference would have been to travel alone. Instead, the fellow had almost insisted on my companionship; indeed, the tactiturn, silent mountaineer had even endeavored to simulate geniality to that end. But for what possible reason? Suspicion no doubt of my real purpose—a vague questioning of my identity, the truth, of the story I had told. One thing was certain I must break away from these men at once, or face exposure. Good fortune had been mine so far, for Major Harwood had failed to recognize me, but if Taylor believed evil of me his tale would certainly influence that officer, and arouse his suspicion likewise. If I could get safely away from the house that night, my escape unknown until morning, I might never encounter either of the two again. 'Twas likely Harwood had come from Charleston, where Ramsay was in command, and he would return there to make his report, while the mountaineer might be dispatched in any direction, but scarcely into the mountain districts of Green Briar, where my duty would take me. Nor would they waste much time in following me—for, at best, their suspicions must be vague, uncertain. Nothing had occurred to render them definite. I had said nothing, done nothing, which was inconsistent with the character I had assumed. They would most naturally suppose I was eager to get on, and preferred to complete the journey alone. No doubt they would dismiss the whole matter with a laugh when they discovered me gone.
I extinguished the light, and looked out of the window. It was quite a drop, though not necessarily a dangerous one, to the ground. Those dim outlines of buildings were probably the stables, where I would find my horse. With no guards the trick of getting away unobserved would be easy enough, and I knew the road sufficiently well to follow it safely. But I desired to learn first what these two men were actually up to. Such information might prove more important than my investigations in Green Briar. I stole across to the door and opened it noiselessly, surprised to discover it had been left unguarded. Either the men below were careless, were innocent of wrong intent, or else were completely deceived as to my character and purpose. There was no one visible in the upper hall, and I leaned over the stair rail gazing down, and listening. A light still burned within the dining room, but there was no sound of voices, or of movement. I waited there motionless for several minutes, unable to assure myself that the conference of the two men had been terminated so quickly. Surely they must be there—yet where the lamp burned no doubt, and would resume conversation shortly.
The silence continued, and I began to cautiously steal passage down the carpeted stairs, crouching well back against the side-wall. Little by little I was able to peer in through the open door—the chairs were vacant; there was no one there. The gleam of the lamp revealed a deserted room, the table still littered with dishes. What had become then of Harwood and Taylor? Could they have gone to bed already? Surely I must have heard them if they had climbed the stairs. If not, had they ventured forth together on some secret mission into the night? or were they sitting beyond in the darkened parlor? This last supposition was possible, and I must be fully assured that neither remained in the house, before I sought to trail them without. I crept to the half-closed door, and endeavored to gain glimpse within. The room was black and silent, although I could perceive dimly the outlines of furniture. Nothing appeared strange, except that the chair nearest the door had been overturned. Surely every article of furniture stood straight and stiff enough, when I glanced that way before, on my first entrance. I recalled clearly how rigid that parlor looked, every piece of furniture placed as if by mathematical lines.
Something—some vague sense of mystery, of danger, gripped me. I felt a strange choking in the throat, and reached for the revolver at my belt. It was not there; the leather holder was empty. My first sensation was fear, a belief I was the victim of treachery. Then it occurred to my mind that the weapon might have fallen from the open holster as I rested on the bed—a mere accident. At least I would learn the truth of that dark room. I stepped within, circled the overturned chair, and a groping foot encountered something lying on the floor. I bent down, and touched it with my hand; it was the body of a man. The whole truth came to me in a flash—there had been a quarrel, a murder, unpremeditated probably, and the assassin had escaped. But which of the two was the victim? An instant I stood there, staring about in the dark, bewildered and uncertain. Then I grasped the lamp from the table in the other room, and returned holding the light in my hands. The form of Major Harwood lay extended on the floor, lifeless, his skull crushed by an ugly blow. Beside him lay a revolver, its butt blood-stained. Beyond doubt this was the weapon which had killed. I picked it up wonderingly—it was my own.
CHAPTER IV INTO THE ENEMIES' HANDS
THE truth in all its ugliness came to me then in sudden revealment. This was no accident, no result of unpremeditated quarrel between the two men. Harwood's death had been deliberately planned, and the effort made to cast suspicion on me, while the murderer escaped. This was why Taylor had insisted on our traveling together so long. It accounted for many things which had puzzled me in the conduct of my companion. And the plot had been successful so far as Taylor knew. The Major lay dead, with my blood-stained revolver—evidently the weapon which had struck the blow—lying beside him. Dawn would reveal the deed, and I would be discovered alone in the house. Only my wakefulness, my desire to investigate, had interfered with the complete success of this hideous plan.
But why had Harwood been murdered? What purpose did his violent death serve? Who was Taylor? And what had brought him all that distance to do a deed like this? The two men were apparently friendly; there was a secret understanding between them; they met in this lonely place by appointment. There could be no doubt as to that, for I had caught the swift sign of warning passing between them caused by my presence; and had felt the desire for my early retirement, so they might converse freely. Could it be possible some misunderstanding had arisen which had led to this tragedy? One fact alone combatted this thought—the stolen revolver; the evident purpose of the murderer to cast the burden of the crime on an innocent man. That was no impulse of the moment, no sudden inspiration. Taylor had prepared himself for this emergency, had deliberately taken the weapon for that very purpose. Where had the fellow gone? In which direction had he fled? A knowledge of this might help to clear up the mystery, might reveal, at least, whether he sought refuge with the Union or Confederate forces. And what had become of the negro?
All these questions flashed through my mind as I stood there, lamp in one hand and revolver in the other, staring down at the dead face. The first feeling of dazed bewilderment changed into anger, and a desire to revenge the death of this man who had once been my father's friend. I cared nothing at that moment for the uniform the Major had worn, that we were opposed to each other in arms; I recalled merely the genial nature of the man, his acts of former friendship, and his motherless daughter. Out of the mist floated the face of the girl, the girl who had waved to me in the road. The vision brought back to me coolness, and determination. I wiped off the blood stains from the revolver on the carpet, and slipped the weapon back into my belt, assuring myself first that it remained loaded. Then I felt through the pockets of the dead man—if robbery had been the object of this crime, that robbery did not involve the taking of money. I found a knife, keys, and a roll of bills untouched, but not a scrap of paper. On the floor, partially concealed by one arm, was a large envelope, unaddressed, roughly torn open. It was some document, then, that the murderer
