She allowed herself to be led into the front room and though she stood on the hearth rug in front of the fire she began to shiver. The bubble of suspicion in her breast was swelling larger now. It was more than a suspicion. It was almost a certainty and a terrible certainty. She looked up into Rhett’s immobile face and for a moment she could not speak. Then：
“Was Frank at—Belle Watling’s？”
“No.”
Rhett’s voice was blunt.
“Archie’s carrying him to the vacant lot near Belle’s. He’s dead. Shot through the head.”
CHAPTER XLVI
FEW FAMILIES in the north end of town slept that night for the news of the disaster to the Klan， and Rhett’s stratagem spread swiftly on silent feet as the shadowy form of India Wilkes slipped through back yards， whispered urgently through kitchen doors and slipped away into the windy darkness. And in her path， she left fear and desperate hope.
From without， houses looked black and silent and wrapped in sleep but， within， voices whispered vehemently into the dawn. Not only those involved in the night’s raid but every member of the Klan was ready for flight and in almost every stable along Peachtree Street， horses stood saddled in the darkness， pistols in holsters and food in saddlebags. All that prevented a wholesale exodus was India’s whispered message： “Captain Butler says not to run. The roads will be watched. He has arranged with that Watling creature—” In dark rooms men whispered： “But why should I trust that damned Scalawag Butler？ It may be a trap！” And women’s voices implored： “Don’t go！ If he saved Ashley and Hugh， he may save everybody. If India and Melanie trust him—” And they half trusted and stayed because there was no other course open to them.
Earlier in the night， the soldiers had knocked at a dozen doors and those who could not or would not tell where they had been that night were marched off under arrest. René Picard and one of Mrs. Merriwether’s nephews and the Simmons boys and Andy Bonnell were among those who spent the night in jail. They had been in the ill-starred foray but had separated from the others after the shooting. Riding hard for home they were arrested before they learned of Rhett’s plan. Fortunately they all replied， to questions， that where they had been that night was their own business and not that of any damned Yankees. They had been locked up for further questioning in the morning. Old man Merriwether and Uncle Henry Hamilton declared shamelessly that they had spent the evening at Belle Watling’s sporting house and when Captain Jaffery remarked irritably that they were too old for such goings on， they wanted to fight him.
Belle Watling herself answered Captain Jaffery’s summons， and before he could make known his mission she shouted that the house was closed for the night. A passel of quarrelsome drunks had called in the early part of the evening and had fought one another， torn the place up， broken her finest mirrors and so alarmed the young ladies that all business had been suspended for the night. But if Captain Jaffery wanted a drink， the bar was still open—Captain Jaffery， acutely conscious of the grins of his men and feeling helplessly that he was fighting a mist， declared angrily that he wanted neither the young ladies nor a drink and demanded if Belle knew the names of her destructive customers. Oh， yes， Belle knew them. They were her regulars. They came every Wednesday night and called themselves the Wednesday Democrats， though what they meant by that she neither knew or cared. And if they didn’t pay for the damage to the mirrors in the upper hall， she was going to have the law on them. She kept a respectable house and— Oh， their names？ Belle unhesitatingly reeled off the names of twelve under suspicion， Captain Jaffery smiled sourly.
“These damned Rebels are as efficiently organized as our Secret Service，” he said. “You and your girls will have to appear before the provost marshal tomorrow.”
“Will the provost make them pay for my mirrors？”
“To hell with your mirrors！ Make Rhett Butler pay for them. He owns the place， doesn’t he？”
Before dawn， every ex-Confederate family in town knew everything. And their negroes， who had been told nothing， knew everything too， by that black grapevine telegraph system which defies white understanding. Everyone knew the details of the raid， the killing of Frank Kennedy and crippled Tommy Wellburn and how Ashley was wounded in carrying Frank’s body away.
Some of the feeling of bitter hatred the women bore Scarlett for her share in the tragedy was mitigated by the knowledge that her husband was dead and she knew it and could not admit it and have the poor comfort of claiming his body. Until morning light disclosed the bodies and the authorities notified her， she must know nothing. Frank and Tommy， pistols in cold hands， lay stiffening among the dead weeds in a vacant lot. And the Yankees would say they killed each other in a common drunken brawl over a girl in Belle’s house. Sympathy ran high for Fanny， Tommy’s wife， who had just had a baby， but no one could slip through the darkness to see her and comfort her because a squad of Yankees surrounded the house， waiting for Tommy to return. And there was another squad about Aunt Pitty’s house， waiting for Frank.
Before dawn the news had trickled about that the military inquiry would take place that day. The townspeople， heavy eyed from sleeplessness and anxious waiting， knew that the safety of some of their most prominent citizens rested on three things—the ability of Ashley Wilkes to stand on his feet and appear before the military board， as though he suffered nothing more serious than a morning-after headache， the word of Belle Watling that these men had been in her house all evening and the word of Rhett Butler that he had been with them.
