“So be it,” she said gravely.  Then impulsively, “But I have not spied on you.”

Yet, the next moment, she bit her lips as if the expression had unwittingly escaped her; and with a reckless shrug of her shoulders she lay back on her pillow.

“It matters not,” said Brant coldly.  “You have used this house and those within it to forward your designs.  It is not your fault that you found nothing in the dispatch-box you opened.”

She stared at him quickly; then shrugged her shoulders again.

“I might have known she was false to me,” she said bitterly, “and that you would wheedle her soul away as you have others.  Well, she betrayed me!  For what?”

A flush passed over Brant’s face.  But with an effort he contained himself.

“It was the flower that betrayed you!  The flower whose red dust fell in the box when you opened it on the desk by the window in yonder room—­the flower that stood in the window as a signal—­the flower I myself removed, and so spoiled the miserable plot that your friends concocted.”

A look of mingled terror and awe came into her face.

“You changed the signal!” she repeated dazedly; then, in a lower voice, “that accounts for it all!” But the next moment she turned again fiercely upon him.  “And you mean to tell me that she didn’t help you—­that she didn’t sell me—­your wife—­to you for—­for what was it?  A look—­a kiss!”

“I mean to say that she did not know the signal was changed, and that she herself restored it to its place.  It is no fault of hers nor yours that I am not here a prisoner.”

She passed her thin hand dazedly across her forehead.

“I see,” she muttered.  Then again bursting out passionately, she said—­“Fool! you never would have been touched!  Do you think that Lee would have gone for you, with higher game in your division commander?  No!  Those supports were a feint to draw him to your assistance while our main column broke his centre.  Yes, you may stare at me, Clarence Brant.  You are a good lawyer—­they say a dashing fighter, too.  I never thought you a coward, even in your irresolution; but you are fighting with men drilled in the art of war and strategy when you were a boy outcast on the plains.”  She stopped, closed her eyes, and then added, wearily—­“But that was yesterday—­to-day, who knows?  All may be changed.  The supports may still attack you.  That was why I stopped to write you that note an hour ago, when I believed I should be leaving here for ever.  Yes, I did it!” she went on, with half-wearied, half-dogged determination.  “You may as well know all.  I had arranged to fly.  Your pickets were to be drawn by friends of mine, who were waiting for me beyond your lines.  Well, I lingered here when I saw you arrive—­lingered to write you that note.  And—­I was too late!”