vision among the negroes and those who fought and
suffered in this war----"

The old Commoner paused, pursed his lips, and fumbled his hands a moment,
the nostrils of his eagle-beaked nose breathing rapacity, sensuality
throbbing in his massive jaws, and despotism frowning from his heavy
brows.

"Stanton will probably add to the hilarity of nations, and amuse himself
by hanging a few rebels," he went on, "but we will address ourselves to
serious work. All men have their price, including the present company,
with due apologies to the speaker----"

Howle's eyes danced, and he licked his lips.

"If I haven't suffered in this war, who has?"

"Your reward will not be in accordance with your sufferings. It will be
based on the efficiency with which you obey my orders. Read that----"

He handed to him a piece of paper on which he had scrawled his secret
instructions.

Another he gave to Lynch.

"Hand them back to me when you read them, and I will burn them. These
instructions are not to pass the lips of any man until the time is
ripe--four bare walls are not to hear them whispered."

Both men handed to the leader the slips of paper simultaneously.

"Are we agreed, gentlemen?"

"Perfectly," answered Howle.

"Your word is law to me, sir," said Lynch.

"Then you will draw on me personally for your expenses, and leave for the
South within forty-eight hours. I wish your reports delivered to me two
weeks before the meeting of Congress."

As Lynch passed through the hall on his way to the door, the brown woman
bade him good-night and pressed into his hand a letter.

As his yellow fingers closed on the missive, his eyes flashed for a moment
with catlike humour.

The woman's face wore the mask of a sphinx.

CHAPTER II

SWEETHEARTS

When the first shock of horror at her husband's peril passed, it left a
strange new light in Mrs. Cameron's eyes.

The heritage of centuries of heroic blood from the martyrs of old Scotland
began to flash its inspiration from the past. Her heart beat with the
unconscious life of men and women who had stood in the stocks, and walked
in chains to the stake with songs on their lips.

The threat against the life of Doctor Cameron had not only stirred her
martyr blood: it had roused the latent heroism of a beautiful girlhood. To
her he had ever been the lover and the undimmed hero of her girlish
dreams. She spent whole hours locked in her room alone. Margaret knew that
she was