Dismissing his servants to bed, he went into his
dressing-room, completely changed his attire, put on a pair of long
riding-boots, and throwing a serape over his shoulders, paused a moment,
took a pair of small "Derringer" pistols from a box, put them in his
pockets, and then slipped cautiously down the staircase. A lack of
confidence in his own domestics had invaded him for the first time. The
lights were out. He silently opened the door and was in the street.
He walked hastily a few squares to a livery stable whose proprietor he
knew. His first inquiry was for one "Redskin," a particular horse; the
second for its proprietor. Happily both were in. The proprietor asked no
question of a customer of Clarence's condition. The horse, half Spanish,
powerful and irascible, was quickly saddled. As Clarence mounted, the
man in an impulse of sociability said,--
"Saw you at the theatre to-night, sir."
"Ah," returned Clarence, quietly gathering up the reins.
"Rather a smart trick of that woman with the flag," he went on
tentatively. Then, with a possible doubt of his customer's politics, he
added with a forced smile, "I reckon it's all party fuss, though; there
ain't any real danger."
But fast as Clarence might ride the words lingered in his ears.
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