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"Then Ned Ferry doesn't drink?"

"Borrowed!" echoed the sergeant. "If he doesn't own that mare no man does."

"Halt!" We halted. "About face!" As the prisoner eyed me both of us listened. His equanimity was almost winsome, and I saw that friendliness was going to be his tactics.

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

My problem was indeed simplified. The despatch had been stolen, opened, read, re-sealed and returned. All I now had to do was to lie here till daybreak and then get away if I could, deliver the despatch to Ned Ferry, and tell him--ah! what?--how much? Oh, my bemired soul, how much must I tell? My shame I might bear; I might wash it out in blood at the battle's front; but my perfidy! how much was it perfidy to withhold; how much was it perfidy to confess?

"Oh, shut your dirty face!" replied the son, while one of his cronies warned both against being overheard. But when this one added something further the old man snarled:

"Two--what?" His smile broadened. "You know that?"

"Why, the other one--the son. Lieutenant, is she that monster's wife?"

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