red
and that he must act with the utmost caution. She had no scout at hand
and Kilpatrick's was expected every moment at her rendezvous near the
market.

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. Should she commence to drop them one by
one?

Perplexed, she stopped and glanced back suddenly into Dick's face. Her
decision was instantaneous. The subtle sixth sense had revealed in a
flash of his eager eyes her mortal danger. She turned into a side street
and hurried home.

The Captain was again baffled by a woman's wit. His disappointment was
keen. He had hoped to prove his accusation to Jennie Barton before the
sun set. She had ceased to fight his suspicions of Socola. His name was
not mentioned. She was watching her lover with more desperate
earnestness even than he.

The Captain had failed to entrap the wily little woman with her market
basket, but through her he struck the trail of the big quarry he had
sought for two years. Socola was imperiled by a woman's sentimental
whim--this woman with nerves of steel and a heart whose very throb she
could control by an indomitable will.

Heartsick over her failure to get through the lines her warning to
Kilpatrick, she had felt the responsibility of young Dahlgren's tragic
death. Woman-like