CHAPTER IV.

For once Susy had not exaggerated.  Captain Pinckney was lingering, with the deputy who had charge of him, on the trail near the casa.  It had already been pretty well understood by both captives and captors that the arrest was simply a legal demonstration; that the sympathizing Federal judge would undoubtedly order the discharge of the prisoners on their own recognizances, and it was probable that the deputy saw no harm in granting Pinckney’s request—­which was virtually only a delay in his liberation.  It was also possible that Pinckney had worked upon the chivalrous sympathies of the man by professing his disinclination to leave their devoted colleague, Mrs. Brant, at the mercy of her antagonistic and cold-blooded husband at such a crisis, and it is to be feared also that Clarence, as a reputed lukewarm partisan, excited no personal sympathy, even from his own party.  Howbeit, the deputy agreed to delay Pinckney’s journey for a parting interview with his fair hostess.

How far this expressed the real sentiments of Captain Pinckney was never known.  Whether his political association with Mrs. Brant had developed into a warmer solicitude, understood or ignored by her,—­what were his hopes and aspirations regarding her future,—­were by the course of fate never disclosed.  A man of easy ethics, but rigid artificialities of honor, flattered and pampered by class prejudice, a so-called “man of the world,” with no experience beyond his own limited circle, yet brave and devoted to that, it were well perhaps to leave this last act of his inefficient life as it was accepted by the deputy.

Dismounting he approached the house from the garden.  He was already familiar with the low arched doorway which led to the business room, and from which he could gain admittance to the patio, but it so chanced that he entered the dark passage at the moment that Clarence had thrust Susy into the business room, and heard its door shut sharply.  For an instant he believed that Mrs. Brant had taken refuge there, but as he cautiously moved forward he heard her voice in the patio beyond.  Its accents struck him as pleading; an intense curiosity drew him further along the passage.  Suddenly her voice seemed to change to angry denunciation, and the word “Liar” rang upon his ears.  It was followed by his own name uttered sardonically by Clarence, the swift rustle of a skirt, the clash of the gate, and then—­forgetting everything, he burst into the patio.

Clarence was just turning from the gate with the marks of his wife’s hand still red on his white cheek.  He saw Captain Pinckney’s eyes upon it, and the faint, half-malicious, half-hysteric smile upon his lips.  But without a start or gesture of surprise he locked the gate, and turning to him, said with frigid significance,—­

“I thank you for returning so promptly, and for recognizing the only thing I now require at your hand.”