“That danger’s over,” he muttered.  “Now to see who is in the upper rooms.”

Perfect silence on the upper floor; only the solemn shadows of the night, as the moon rises higher and higher, and the plaintive cries of the night-birds alone betoken life.  Through the windows the white-jacketed house-servants are rushing gayly to and from the dining-room.  All the rooms are dimly lighted.  The President’s apartment is fragrant with blossoms, and the lace counterpane turned down.  Retracing his steps, Wesley enters Vincent’s room on the corridor with his own.  The candle is burning dimly on the mantel.  He seems to know his whereabouts very well for he makes straight for a bureau between the bed and the window.  He takes from the top drawer a pistol-case, which he has evidently handled before, as he touches the spring at once.  He takes out one pistol, and, rapidly extracting the loads, puts it back.  He has taken four out of the five barrels of the second when a sound of footsteps in the hall startles him.  He has barely time to replace the weapons, close the case, put it in the drawer and crawl under the bed, when Vincent and Jack enter.

His suspense and terror are so overmastering that he can only hear an occasional word.  His own heart-beats sound in his ears like the thumping of a paddle.  Is Vincent going to bed?  Are Jack and he going to sit and smoke, as they often do?  No, relief beyond words, they are going out!  Perhaps to Jack’s room?  They often sit there until very late, and then Vincent slips in stocking-feet to his own room.  But they are gone, and he must fly.  He dares not return to extract the last charge.  But one ball can’t do much hurt in the dark, and, if his plans are carried out with care, there will be no chance for any one to use the weapons on the rescuing party, even if he were disposed to.  In a moment Wesley is back in his room, marking, with surprise, that there is no sound from Jack’s or Dick’s room.  But all is well.  He is in his own room and secure from surprise.

He sat down to think.  He must keep everything in mind.  One whippoorwill cry from outside would mean that all was well; two that he must hurry to the rendezvous.  It seemed like a dream.  Davis, the arch-rebel, the chief architect of the Confederacy, under the same roof; in an hour, if no hitch come, the traitor would be bound and flying in trusty Union hands.  And when they got North?—­when he, Wesley Boone, handed over to the authorities in Washington this hateful chief of a hateful cause, what fame would be his!  No one could dispute it.  He had informed Butler’s agent; he had watched day and night; had given the Unionists plans of the grounds; was now periling his own rescue to bring the arch-traitor to his doom.  Ah! what in all history would compare with this glorious daring?  He sat glowing in dreams of such delicious, roseate delight, that he took no heed of time, and was startled when he heard Dick and Jack bidding each other good-night.  Then in a few minutes be heard Jack’s door open and a tap at Dick’s door.