"Get over on that side of the road," whispered Lloyd, "and keep out of sight behind that tree; leave your horse here."
Symonds did as he was told none too soon. Around the bend of the road came a horseman. Quickly Lloyd's challenge rang out:
"Halt, or I fire!"
As he spoke, Lloyd swung his horse across the narrow road.
Swerving instinctively to the right, the newcomer was confronted by Symonds, who had stepped from behind the tree, revolver in hand. An easy target for both sides, the rider had no choice in the matter. Checking his frightened horse, he called:
"Are you Yanks or rebels?"
Symonds lowered his revolver. He knew that a Confederate picket would not be apt to use the word "rebels."
"We are Yanks," he answered, "and you?"
"A friend."
"Advance, friend," ordered Lloyd, "but put your right hand up. Now," as the rider approached him, "where did you come from, and where are you going?"
"From Harper's Ferry, bearing despatches to Adjutant-General Thomas in Washington from General John Stevenson, commanding this district."
"How did you come to take this cut?" demanded Symonds.
"I rode down the tow path until I reached Edward's Ferry, then cut across here, hoping to strike the turnpike. It's freezing on the tow-path." As he spoke the trooper pulled the collar of his heavy blue overcoat up about his ears until it nearly met his cavalry hat.
The clouds were drifting away from before the moon, and a ray of light illuminated the scene. Lloyd inspected the trooper suspiciously; his story sounded all right, but …
"Your regiment?" he asked.
"The First Maryland Potomac Home Brigade, Colonel Henry A. Cole. I am attached to headquarters as special messenger."
"Let me see your despatch."
"Hold on," retorted the trooper. "First, tell me who you are."
"That's cool," broke in Symonds. "I guess you will show it to us whether you want to or not. Seems to me, young man," glancing closely at the latter's mount, "your horse is mighty fresh, considering you have ridden such a distance."
"We in the cavalry know how to keep our horses in good condition, as well as ride them." The trooper pointed derisively at Symonds' sorry nag standing with drooping head by the roadside.
"None of your lip," growled Symonds angrily; his poor riding was a sore subject. Further discussion was cut short by Lloyd's peremptory order:
"Come; I am waiting; give me the despatch," and, as the trooper still hesitated, "we are agents of the United States Secret Service."
"In that case, sir." The trooper's right hand went to the salute; then he unbuttoned his coat, and fumbled in his belt. "Here it is, sir."
As Lloyd bent forward to take the expected paper, he received instead a crashing blow on the temple from the butt end of a revolver, which sent him reeling from the saddle. At the same time, Symonds, who had hold of the trooper's bridle, was lifted off his feet by the sudden rearing of the horse, and before he had collected his wits, he was dashed violently to one side and thrown on the icy ground.
Symonds staggered to his feet, but at that instant the trooper, who was some distance away, swerved suddenly toward the woods, and his broad cavalry hat was jerked from his head by a low-hanging branch. His horse then bolted into the middle of the road, and for a second the trooper's figure was silhouetted against the sky in the brilliant moonlight. A mass of heavy hair had fallen down the rider's back.
"By God! It's a woman!" gasped Symonds, as he clutched his revolver.
A shot rang out, followed by a stifled cry; then silence, save for the galloping hoof beats growing fainter and fainter down the road in the direction of Washington.
CHAPTER II
BRAINS VS. BRAWN
Up Thirteenth Street came the measured tread of marching feet, and two companies of infantry turned the corner into New York Avenue. The soldiers marched with guns reversed and colors furled. A few passers-by stopped to watch the sad procession. Suddenly they were startled by peal on peal of merry laughter, which came from a bevy of girls standing in front of Stuntz's notion store. Instantly two officers left their places by the curb and walked over to the little group.
"Your pardon, ladies," said Lloyd sternly. "Why do you laugh at a soldier's funeral?"
The young girl nearest him wheeled around, and inspected Lloyd from head to foot.
"What's that to you, Mr. Yank?" she demanded impudently.
"Nothing to me, madam; but for you, perhaps, Old Capitol Prison."
"Nonsense, Lloyd," exclaimed his companion, Major Goddard. "I am sure the young ladies meant no intentional offense."
Lloyd's lips closed in a thin line, but before he could reply a girl standing in the background stepped forward and addressed him.
"We meant no disrespect to the dead," she said, and her clear, bell-like voice instantly caught both men's attention. "In fact, we did not notice the funeral; they are, alas, of too frequent occurrence these days to attract much attention."
"Ah, indeed." Lloyd's tone betrayed his disbelief. "And may I ask what you were laughing at?"
"Certainly; at Misery."
"Misery?" Lloyd's color rose. He hated to be made ridiculous, and a titter from the listening girls roused his temper. "Is that another name for a funeral?"
"No, sir," demurely; "it is the name of my dog."
"Your dog?"
"Yes, my pet dog. You know, 'Misery loves company.'" The soft, hazel eyes lighted with a mocking smile as she looked full at the two perplexed men. "I'm 'company,'" she added softly.
In silence Lloyd studied the girl's face with growing interest, A vague, elusive likeness haunted him. Where had he heard that voice before? At that instant the glint of her red-gold hair in the winter sunshine caught his eye. His unspoken question was answered.
"Who's being arrested now?" asked a quiet voice behind Lloyd, and a man, leaning heavily on his cane, pushed his way through the crowd that had collected about the girls. The slight, limping figure was well known in every section of Washington, and Lloyd stepped back respectfully to make room for Doctor John Boyd. It was the first time he had seen the famous surgeon at such close quarters, and he examined the grotesque old face with interest.
Doctor Boyd had lost none of the briskness of youth, despite his lameness, nor his fingers their skill, but his face was a mass of wrinkles. His keen, black eyes, bristling gray beard, predatory nose, and saturnine wit, together with his brusque manner, made strangers fear him. But their aversion was apt to change to idolatry when he became their physician.
"What, Nancy Newton, you here?" continued the surgeon, addressing the last speaker, "and Belle Cary? Have you two girls been sassing our military friends?" indicating the two officers with a wave of his hand.
"Indeed, no, Doctor John," protested Nancy; "such an idea never entered our heads. But these gentlemen don't seem to believe me."
Major Goddard stepped forward, and raised his cap.
"The young lady is mistaken, doctor," he said gravely. "We do believe her, notwithstanding," glancing quizzically at Nancy, "that we have not yet seen her dog."
"Misery!" exclaimed the surgeon, laughing. "So my four-footed friend has gotten you into