by old blue clad men who stand on the street comers and argue about Pickett’s charge, or the first battle of Bull Run. Men to whom the Civil War is still far more of a reality than the World War just completed.
“I’m famished,” confessed Jessica. “We can talk at breakfast—Elizabeth knows everything I know.”
“Eddie Hughes is in this with me—and we want to include him when we make plans,” said Val. “So that’s all right. Let’s go.”
They called Elizabeth, and pushed their way through the crowd to where Eddie sat in the flivver waiting for them. In three minutes they were in a quaint little restaurant, being waited on by the proprietor himself. Nobody else was in the place, the fire being a far greater attraction there than a mere meal, which one could have at any time.
Over the breakfast, which was an excellent one, they discussed the affair. Val told them the events of the last night. How he had come alone to the cottage and found Teck there, and had continued on alone to the old house. He described vividly to them the struggle there and how he had awakened, bound, in the dilapidated living room. He told of the blood dripping through the ceiling, and of the woman’s scream he had heard ringing through the night.
“That was me,” admitted Jessica.
“You!” echoed Val in amazement. She nodded.
“Why, how on earth did you come to be there at that time of night, alone, and⸺”
“It was rather a crazy idea,” she dimpled. “You see, after Ignace left—the first time—he came back later, you know—and still you did not appear, I decided that it was quite possible you had gone on alone—so I went after you. When I got there the
