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But, after all, fortune was merciful, and I was gone; the Major had summoned me--his brother had come. I went circuitously and alone. As I started, some fellow writhing on the grass cried, "Charlie Tol--oh, this is better than a tcharade!" and a flash of divination enlightened me. While I went I burned with shame, rage and nervous exhaustion; the name Scott Gholson had gasped in my ear was the name of her in the curtained wagon, and I cursed the day in which I had heard of Charlotte Oliver.

I surrender, he said, with amiable ease.

"What do you see?" His frown scared me to my finger-tips.

"Read the address on your despatch," said Gholson, resuming his pen.

"Oh, I don't doubt you have; though I didn't know but it might be Charlie Toliver or something."

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