There was a silence.  Cary studied the fire, and Major Churchill unfolded deftly with his one hand a yellowing paper, glanced over it, and laid it in a separate drawer.  “An order from General Washington—­the Andre matter.  Deb shall not visit Roselands again.  Dick and I are not going to have both of Henry’s children”—­The Major’s voice broke.  “Pshaw! this damned weather gives a man a cold that Valley Forge itself couldn’t give!” He unfolded another paper.  “What’s this?  Benedict Arnold!  Faugh!” Rising, he approached the fire and threw the letter in, then turned impatiently upon the younger man.  “Well, Fairfax Cary?”

“Is it still,” asked Cary slowly, “your opinion that she does not know?”

“She?”

“Mrs. Rand.”

Major Edward dragged a chair to the corner of the hearth and sat heavily down.  He bent forward, a brooding, melancholy figure, a thin old veteran, grey and scarred.  The fire-light showed strongly square jaw, hawk nose, and beetle brows.  When he spoke, it was in a voice inexpressibly sombre.  “I have seen my niece but three times since September.  If you ask me now what you asked me then, I shall answer differently.  I do not know—­I do not know if she knows or not!”

“I think, sir, that I have a clue.  The hour when he passed Red Fields—­”

Major Churchill put up a shaking hand.  “No, sir!  Remember our bargain.  I’ll not hear it.  I’ll weigh no evidence on this subject.  Enough for me to know in my heart of hearts that this man murdered Ludwell Cary, and that he dwells free at Roselands, blackening my niece—­that he rides free to town—­pleads his cases—­does his work—­ingratiates himself, and grows, grows in the esteem of his county and his state!  That, I say, is enough, sir!  If you have your clue, for God’s sake don’t impart it to me!  I’ve told you I will not make nor meddle.”  Major Edward began to cough.  “Open the window, will you?  The room is damned hot.  Well, sir, well?”

“I’ll say no more, then, sir, as to that,” Cary answered from the window.  “I wish absolutely to respect your position.  It will do no harm, however, to tell you that I am going to Richmond the day after Christmas.”

“To Richmond!  What are you going to Richmond for?”

“I want,” replied the other, with restrained passion,—­“I want to ride from Shockoe Hill at three o’clock in the afternoon, with my face to Roselands, and in my heart the knowledge that I have been foiled and thwarted in deep-laid and cherished schemes by the one whom, for no especially good reason, I have singled out of the world to be my enemy!  I want to feel the black rage of the Rands in my heart.  I want to sleep, the third night, at the Cross Roads Tavern, and I want to go on in the morning by Malplaquet I want to learn at Forrest’s forge that Ludwell Cary is on the road before me.  Perhaps, by the time I reach the mill and cross the ford, I will remember what it was that I did next, and how I managed to be on two roads at once.”