me convinced that the appearance was just. Then he cast one swift
glance at the inscrutable Mr. Sefton, who still sat in the shadow and
did not move.

"I thank you for your kind words," he said to the Secretary of War, "and
I shall appreciate very much the honour, of which you give me an
intimation."

The great man smiled. It is pleasant to us all to confer benefits and
still pleasanter to know that they are appreciated.

"It is a bit of work in the nature of secret service, Captain Prescott,"
he continued, "and it demands a wary eye and a discerning mind."

Prescott shuddered with repulsion. Instinctively he foresaw what was
coming, and there was no task which he would not have preferred in its
place. And he was expected, too, at such a moment, to look grateful.

"You will recall the episode of the spy and the abstraction of the
papers from the President's office," continued the Secretary of War in
orotund and complaisant tones. "It may seem to the public that we have
dropped this matter, which is just what we wish the public to think, as
it may lull the suspicions of the suspected. But we are more resolved
than ever to secure the guilty!"

Prescott glanced again at Mr. Sefton, but he still sat in the shadow,
and Prescott believed that he had not yet moved either hand or foot in
the whole interview.

"To be brief, Captain Prescott," resumed the Secretary of War, "we wish
you to take charge of this service which, I repeat, we consider delicate
and important."

"Now?" asked Prescott.

"No, not immediately--in two or three days, perhaps; we shall notify
you. We are convinced the guilty are yet in Richmond and cannot escape.
It is important that we capture them, as we may unearth a nest of
conspirators. I trust that you see the necessity of our action."

Prescott bowed, though he was raging inwardly, and it was in his mind to
decline abruptly such a service, but second thought told him a refusal
might make a bad matter worse. He would have given much, too, to see the
face of Mr. Sefton--his fancy painted there a smile of irony.

As the Secretary of War seemed to have said all that he intended,
Prescott turned to go, but he added a word of thanks to Mr. Sefton,
whose voice he wished to hear. Mr. Sefton merely nodded, and the young
Captain, as he went out, hesitated on the doorstep as if he expected to
hear sardonic laughter behind him. He heard nothing.

The fierce touch of the winter outside cooled his blood,