and able to bend the undercurrents—­a delighter in danger, with a boy’s zest for intrigue, risk, and daring—­an uncomplex mind, little troubled by theories of political obligation, political faith and unfaith, loyalty to government or its reverse—­a being born to adventure, but to adventure under guidance, skilled and gay subaltern to some graver, abler leader—­that, he thought, would be Adam Gaudylock.  An old, old friend of Lewis Rand’s—­“There’s a connection somewhere between the Gaudylocks and the Rands.”

Cary put out his hand and moved a piece with suddenness.  “Granted the connection,” he said aloud.  His eye gleamed.  “That night Rand agreed with Burr.  Gaudylock would have been there to give information; probably, seeing that he went West immediately afterwards, to receive instructions.  But he is an asset of Lewis Rand’s, not of Burr’s.”

His hand touched the piece again.  “An asset of Lewis Rand’s—­Rand and Burr—­Rand and Burr.  What was it that they plotted that night while she talked to me of the new song she had learned?  An expedition against Mexico, an attack upon the dominions of the King of Spain with whom we are at peace?  Or a revolution in the country west of the Ohio?  The one’s a misdemeanour; the other’s treason.”  He moved a rook.  “Most like ’twas both—­the first to mask the second.  The boldest, simplest, most comprehensive stroke; there, there would show the mind of Lewis Rand!”

He rose and paced the long, cool room, then came back to the chess table.  “They parted.  Burr to the North, as I found the next morning; this trader, as he says, back to the West; Lewis Rand quiet in Richmond, quiet here in Albemarle.  Quiet!  That speech of his—­those letters in the Enquirer.  How long has he been breaking with Mr. Jefferson?  That journey, too, to Philadelphia—­whom did he see there?  Swartwout, Bollman, perhaps Burr himself?  Home he comes to Albemarle and begins improving Roselands.  Cases too, in court, and a queue of waiting clients, and Richmond to return to in November.  Granted there’s a strange emigration West; but Lewis Rand—­Lewis Rand’s as fixed in Virginia as are the Churchills and the Carys!”

He slowly lifted and as slowly moved a queen.  “And what other course, from time out of mind, does the disloyal pursue?  A mask—­all a mask.  He, too, is for the West.  He goes to join Burr; goes, if his fate stands true, to supplant Burr.  Matters draw to a point, and he has little time to spare!  Say that he goes”—­A movement of his arm, involuntary and sharp, jarred the table and disarranged the board.  “Will he go alone?”

Cary rose and walked the floor.  “I must know—­I must know.”  He paused at a western window, and with unseeing eyes gazed into the blue distance.  “Were he Ludwell Cary, would he fare forth on his adventure alone?  Perhaps.  Being Lewis Rand, will he go without her, leave her behind?  A thousand times, no!  Even now this daughter of Burr’s is hurrying by day and by night over rough and over smooth, to join her father; how much more, then, shall lover go with lover, the faithful wife with the all-conquering husband!  She shall be there to buckle on our armour, to heal us with her kiss when the long day’s work is over!” He bent his brow upon his arm.  “O God, O God!”