Dick turned the corner, circled a block, and met her. She was childishly
swinging the basket on her arm and humming a song. She smiled vacantly
into his face. He caught the look of shrewd intelligence and saw through
her masquerade. A single word from her lips now would send her to the
gallows and certainly lead to Socola's arrest.
The Captain was certain that she carried dispatches on her person at
that moment. If he could only induce her to drop them, the trick would
be turned.
He turned, retraced his steps, overtook her and whispered as he passed:
"Your trusted messenger--"
She paid no attention. There was not the slightest recognition--no
surprise--no inquiry. Her thin face was a mask of death.
Was this man Kilpatrick's scout? Or was he a Secret Service man on her
trail? The questions seethed through her excited soul. Her life hung on
the answer. It was a question of judgment of character and personality.
The man was a stranger. But the need was terrible. Should she take the
chance?
She quickened her pace and passed Dick.
Again she heard him whisper:
"Your messenger is here. I am going through to-night."
In her hand clasped tight was her dispatch torn into strips and each
strip rolled into a tiny ball.
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