“Please sit down,” she entreated.  “He—­he won’t touch me again while you are here.”

Eliphalet Hopper raised himself from the desk, and one of the big books fell with a crash to the floor.  Then they saw him shrink, his eyes fixed upon some one behind them.  Before the Judge’s door stood Colonel Carvel, in calm, familiar posture, his feet apart, and his head bent forward as he pulled at his goatee.

“What is this man doing here, Virginia?” he asked.  She did not answer him, nor did speech seem to come easily to Mr. Hopper in that instant.  Perhaps the sight of Colonel Carvel had brought before him too, vividly the memory of that afternoon at Glencoe.

All at once Virginia grasped the fulness of the power in this man’s hands.  At a word from him her father would be shot as a spy—­and Stephen Brice, perhaps, as a traitor.  But if Colonel Carvel should learn that he had seized her,—­here was the terrible danger of the situation.  Well she knew what the Colonel would do.  Would.  Stephen tell him?  She trusted in his coolness that he would not.

Before a word of reply came from any of the three, a noise was heard on the stairway.  Some one was coming up.  There followed four seconds of suspense, and then Clarence came in.  She saw that his face wore a worried, dejected look.  It changed instantly when he glanced about him, and an oath broke from his lips as he singled out Eliphalet Hopper standing in sullen aggressiveness, beside the table.

“So you’re the spy, are you?” he said in disgust.  Then he turned his back and faced his uncle.  “I saw, him in Williams’s entry as we drove up.  He got away from me.”

A thought seemed to strike him.  He strode to the open window at the back of the office, and looked out, There was a roof under it.

“The sneak got in here,” he said.  “He knew I was waiting for him in the street.  So you’re the spy, are you?”

Mr. Hopper passed a heavy hand across the cheek where Stephen had struck him.

“No, I ain’t the spy,” he said, with a meaning glance at the Colonel.

“Then what are you doing here?” demanded Clarence, fiercely.

“I cal’late that he knows,” Eliphalet replied, jerking his head toward Colonel Carvel.  “Where’s his Confederate uniform?  What’s to prevent my calling up the provost’s guard below?” he continued, with a smile that was hideous on his swelling face.

It was the Colonel who answered him, very quickly and very clearly.

“Nothing whatever, Mr. Hopper,” he said.  “This is the way out.”  He pointed at the door.  Stephen, who was watching him, could not tell whether it were a grim smile that creased the corners of the Colonel’s mouth as he added.  “You might prefer the window.”

Mr. Hopper did not move, but his eyes shifted to Virginia’s form.  Stephen deliberately thrust himself between them that he might not see her.

“What are you waiting for?” said the Colonel, in the mild voice that should have been an ominous warning.  Still Mr. Hopper did not move.  It was clear that he had not reckoned upon all of this; that he had waited in the window to deal with Virginia alone.  But now the very force of a desire which had gathered strength in many years made him reckless.  His voice took on the oily quality in which he was wont to bargain.