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"Who--o?" It was not one who asked; the whos came like shrapnel; and when, not knowing what else to do, I smiled as one dying, there went up a wail of mirth that froze my blood and then heated it to a fever. The company howled. They rolled over one another, crying, "Charlie Toliver!--Charlie Toliver!--Oh, Lord, where's Scott Gholson!--Charlie Toliver!"--and leaped up and huddled down and moaned and rolled and rose and looked for me.

"Nor no woman?" I asked, and again across the back of my neck my two companions gazed at each other.

"Nonsense!" muttered both men, and I liked them the better.

"They were neither of them present, Lieutenant; that hand was Miss Coralie Rothvelt's."

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