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"Who?" I cried. "What! You don't mean to say--was that Lieutenant Ferry?"

"Then Ned Ferry doesn't drink?"

"I am his clerk." In the car a flash of joy and then great decorum.

"Good-bye,--Dick."

"Yes," I replied, "in that direction."

"I--I believe it yet! You are Charlotte Oliver!"

"And was care for me your only motive in--"

"Oh! And where is the battery?"

I drew the counterpane aside, lay down under it revolver in hand, and then, for the first time since I had put on the glorious gray, found I could not face the thought of death. I grew steadily, penetratingly, excruciatingly cold, and presently--to the singular satisfaction of my conscience--began to shake from head to foot with a nervous chill. It was agonizing, but it was so much better than the spiritual chill of which it took the place! I felt as though I should never be warm again. Yet the attack slowly passed away, and with my finger once more close to the trigger, I lay trying to use my brain, when, without prayer or plan, I solved the riddle, what I should do, by doing the only thing I knew I ought not to do. I slept.

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