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"Has he a taste for fiction?" I asked, with a depreciative smirk.

At the door the Colonel gave me a last look. "Good-night, Legs."

"Yes," I said, and handed her, as I dismounted, the General's gift, the pass.

I attempted an evasion. "Oh--a blanket on the ground--face covered up in it from the mosquitos--is really--"

Not because of this speech, but of a soft rubbing sound on the window-sill behind me, my heart turned cold. Yet there I saw a most welcome sight. Against the outer edge of the sill an unseen hand was moving a forked stick to and fro. The tip of one of its tines was slit, in the slit was a white paper, and in the fork hung the bridle of my horse. I glided to the window. But there bethinking me how many a man had put his head out at just such a place and never got it back, I made a long sidewise reach, secured the paper, and read it.

"South?" asked our leader.

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