“I can well believe it,” he replied, for he saw to cross-examine this quick witted woman would be forever useless.  “And in happier times I could wish it might extend—­to me.

“Oh, I mean no offense,” he interrupted as Mrs. Cary rose haughtily.  “I only want you to believe that I’m sorry for this intrusion.”

She raised her eyebrows faintly and sat down again.  “And was that the reason why you asked about my neighbor’s horse?”

“No,” he said quickly, and as suddenly caught and held her eye.  “There’s a Rebel scout who has been giving us trouble—­a handsome fellow riding a bay horse.  I thought, perhaps, he might have passed this way.”

If he had thought he would detect anything in her face he was once more mistaken.

“It is more than possible,” Mrs. Cary remarked with a touch of weariness.  “The road out there is a public one.”

“And where does it lead to, may I ask?”

“That depends upon which way you are traveling—­and which fork you take.”

“Possibly.  But suppose you were riding north.  Wouldn’t the right fork lead to Richmond—­and the left swing around toward the river crossing?”

“As to that I must refer you to a more competent authority,” she answered with a hint of some disclosure in her tones.

“Who?”

“Mr. Jefferson Davis,” she replied and almost laughed outright as he turned away to hide his vexation.  This was an easy game for her to play—­and every moment she gained added to Herbert’s safety.  But if only she could hear those three shots from across the river.

“Well, Harris?” said Morrison as his Lieutenant strode up.

“I have to report, sir, that we’ve gotten what little hay and corn there was in the stables and are waiting for your orders.”

“Very well,” and Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison’s incisive words rang mercilessly in the listening woman’s ears.  “Pick out the best shots you have among your men and send them at the gallop down this road to the river crossing.  String them along the bank, dismount them and have them watch as they’ve never watched before.  You understand?  Now hurry!”

If ever a woman hated a man, or rather the crushing force he typified, then Herbert Cary’s wife hated this clear headed, efficient Northerner, who was now discovering how he had been delayed and thwarted.  Yet she had plenty of spirit left, for as Corporal Dudley and his file of troopers emerged from the house she stood up and caught Uncle Billy’s eye.

“Well, Corporal?” asked Morrison.

“Well, William?” asked Mrs. Cary.

“It’s all right, Miss Hallie,” Uncle Billy grinned.  “Dey ain’t took nothin’—­not a single thing.”

“Thank you, William,” said Mrs. Cary, having triumphed again.  “And thank you, gentlemen.”  With a bow to Morrison she went superbly back to her seat under the trees.  But as she went it took all her strength of will to keep from crying.  Down the carriage road a squad of cavalry was galloping furiously towards the river.  And still she had not heard the three shots.