Betty’s heart sank.  She murmured something in reply as Mr. Van Brugh paused.  This was the famous and cruel Colonel Tarleton.  If he had traced Oliver, then all was lost.  She strained her ears for further information, smiling up at Mr. Van Brugh as she waved her fan gently to and fro.

“If you are so sure of it, why did he, an apparent stranger, have aught to communicate to that fiddler yonder?  Go quietly through the crowd and watch the gentleman as he appears at supper; I’ll have a word with Yorke on the subject,” and they moved off in the direction of the ballroom.

“Will he, indeed?” thought Betty, as she saw Geoffrey coming toward her from the hall; “not while I can hold him at my side,” and with somewhat paler face, but with calm demeanor she moved away, obedient to Geoffrey’s request that she should go to supper.

Kitty Cruger’s evening, unlike Betty’s, had been full of dangerous excitement.  Arriving at the ball with her mother, she had been dancing with her usual spirit, keeping, however, anxious watch for Oliver.  But she perceived no one whom she could possibly imagine was he, even in disguise, and therefore it was with almost a shock of dismay that she found herself stopped, as she was passing the supper-room door, by her hostess, who “craved the favor of presenting a gentleman just arrived from Albany, who knew her family there.”  Kitty dropped her most formal courtesy and raised her eyes to the face of the stranger.  Verily, Oliver possessed positive genius for disguises, and troubled as she was Kitty could not restrain a smile as she recognized in the rubicund countenance and somewhat portly form of the gentleman bowing before her an admirable caricature of no less a person than her respected uncle, Cornelius Lansing, an antiquated Albany beau.

Yorke, with Betty, was just inside the door as the pair entered, and as Kitty perceived them she paused for a moment to say good-evening.

“Where have you been?  I was looking for you.  Permit me to present Mynheer Gansevoort, of Albany.  Mistress Betty Wolcott and Captain Yorke.  As for you, sir,”—­to Yorke, with a playful tap of her fan to engage his attention,—­“you have not yet claimed my hand for a dance.  Pray, what excuse can you devise for such neglect?”

Betty seized her opportunity.  She must warn Oliver at all hazards.  “Have you lately arrived?” she said, fixing her eyes on him; then, in so low a whisper that it barely reached him by motion of her lips, “You are watched; be careful!”

“I am somewhat deaf,” returned Oliver, with great readiness, bending his ear toward her.  “By whom?”—­with equal caution.

“Colonel Tarleton.  Escape as speedily as you can.”

“Did you speak?” said Geoffrey, turning suddenly, to Betty’s dismay, and casting a penetrating glance at Oliver, which he returned with the utmost calmness.

“This gentleman is somewhat deaf, I find,” answered Betty.  “It is a sad affliction, sir; has it troubled you long?”