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credit to any of the French-Creole savate fighters Ludlow had seen in New Orleans.
    Blowing on her stinging knuckles, Belle worked the fingers and looked in Ludlow’s direction. Unless she missed her guess, he would not be troubling her for at least a couple of minutes. So she decided to make herself more presentable. If any of the guests should happen to come to the stables, her state of undress would call for more explanation than she cared to give.
    Taking up her sash and skirt, she gave them a shake to remove any traces of their contact with the ground. After donning the skirt, she took up her vanity bag and the key-pistol. Slowly she turned the latter over in her hands, making sure that she kept the barrel pointing away from her. Although Belle knew of such things, the pistol she held was the first of its kind to come into her hands.
    From what Belle could see, the pistol had been well made. Its outer surfaces showed the dull, rust-pitted appearance one expected from the main key of an old church. The inside of the barrel had the clean, shining glint of new metal. Most likely it incorporated some kind of easily removable barrel-cap when not in use to prevent its true purpose being detected. She would know when they searched Ludlow.
    Originally such pistols had been designed for use by jailers, serving to open the cell doors and provide an instantly available weapon should a prisoner try an attack. Belle knew the one she held must be of more modern construction and wondered how it worked. It might make use of the metallic cartridges becoming so popular among the Yankees; or take a charge of loose powder, ignited by a percussion cap, to fire its bullet. Although curious to learn, Belle knew better than to experiment. The time might come when she could use such a device, but she preferred to allow a trained gunsmith to learn how it operated.
    Hearing footsteps approaching the stables, Belle dropped the pistol into her bag. She glanced again at Ludlow, seeing no sign of recovery, and moved towards the door. From the poor quality of his clothing, the man who approached her did not attend the ball as a guest. He was big, well-built, yet looked neither slow nor awkward. Studying the man, Belle concluded it might be unwise to try savate on him should he be an enemy. Given the element of surprise, she might be able to render him helpless. If she failed, he looked strong enough to half kill her.
    So Belle slipped her right hand casually into the mouth of her bag. Ignoring the key-pistol, as she was unsure how to work it, the girl eased her fingers through the bracelet which rested in a pouch stitched to the side of the bag. She moved carefully, for the bracelet had a razor-sharp edge for use in emergencies.
    “Southrons, hear your country call you,” the man said quietly. On hearing the first line of the militantly patriotic words General Albert Pike put to Daniel B. Emmet’s song ‘Dixie’, Belle relaxed. The Confederate Secret Service used it as a password by which agents could identify themselves to each other. Satisfied that there would be no danger, Belle still retained her hold of the bracelet. In its way, that bracelet was every bit as much a weapon as the key-pistol and no more likely to be suspected.
    “Up lest worse than death befall you,” she replied, giving the Counter-sign.
    “Absom sent me, the name’s Tolling,” the man said, entering the barn and looking her over with approval. “So you’re Miss Boyd. It’s a honour to meet up with you, ma’am.”
    “I hope I’m not too much of a disappointment,” Belle smiled. Despite her light answer, Belle felt pleased with the man’s obvious pleasure. It had been a hard struggle in the early days to gain male approval and acceptance by the Confederate States Secret Service, but now she was firmly established and shared honours with Rose Greenhow as the leading female lights of that organisation. Between them, the two young women extracted much information and