Kitty's Conquest

That evening we dined at Moreau's. Things had quieted down in the city, though the troops still remained on duty in the streets; and it was with eager anticipation of meeting Frank Amory that I wended my way to the tidy old restaurant with its sanded floor, its glittering array of little tables, and the ever-attentive waiters. Colonel Summers and his party had not yet arrived. Would Monsieur step up to the room and wait their coming? Monsieur would; and, taking the Evening Picayune to while away the time, Mr. Brandon seated himself on the balcony overlooking Canal Street,—busy, bustling, thronged as usual; yet bustling in the languid, Latinized sense of the term; bustling in a way too unlike our Northern business centres to justify the use of the term. No sign of disorder or turmoil was manifest. The banquettes on both sides were covered with ladies and children; the street-cars on the esplanade were filled with passengers going in every direction; the booths, fruit-stands, confectioneries were all doing a thriving business; the newsboys were scurrying to and fro in their picturesque tatters screaming the headlines of their evening bulletins; carriages and cabriolets were rattling to and fro; the setting sun shone hot on the glaring façade of the stone Custom-House down the street; and beyond, across the crowded and dusty levee, dense volumes of black smoke were rising from the towering chimneys of the boats even now pushing from the shore and ploughing huskily up the stream. All spoke of business activity and lively trade. The mercurial spirit of the populace seemed to have subsided to the normal level; and the riot of yesterday was a thing of the distant past.

Voices on the stairs called me into the cosey room, and Kitty entered radiant; with her—not Mars but Mr. Turpin; behind her, Colonel Summers and the doctor. Pauline had again decided to remain and take tea with the landlady, but Vinton was improving, said Harrod, who instantly added an inquiry for Amory.

"He has not been here, nor have I seen him to-day. Have you, Mr. Turpin?" I asked.

"No, sir. Amory and his troop were sent up to Jeffersonville at noon, so I learned at headquarters, and they have not come back since."

"Then we must go on without him," said Harrod, and dinner was ordered forthwith.

Seated by Kitty's side, Mr. Turpin was soon absorbed in the duty of making himself agreeable. Evidently they had been talking of Amory before coming in, and, whether piqued at the latter's conduct in not yet having been to see her, or worse, at his having been there to inquire for Vinton and not for her, Kitty was in the very mood to render her new admirer's attentions acceptable. She was sparkling with animation. She was listening with flattering eagerness to everything he said, laughing merrily at every sally; urging him to tell more of his cadet days and army life; paying no heed to any of the rest of us; plainly, only too plainly, bent on fascinating her infantry friend, and fascination it plainly was. Mr. Turpin was head over heels in love with her before dinner was half over; and while we oldsters were discussing our cigars and pousse café on the balcony after that repast, they were seated on the sofa merrily, intently chatting together, as firm friends as though they had known one another from childhood. So intent that my entrance for a match in nowise disturbed them; so utterly intent that they never saw what I saw at once,—Frank Amory standing at the door.

To my eager welcome he responded absently. Turpin sprang up and held out his hand, which was taken in a perfunctory sort of way, but there was no heartiness in his reply to the cordial greeting of his classmate. He bowed in a constrained manner to Kitty, who had flushed with surprise—possibly some other emotion—when she caught sight of him; and then without further notice of either her or her companion, he passed on to where Harrod was standing at the open window, and eagerly inquired for Vinton, but his bearing was forced and unnatural. He had already dined, he said, and had been unable to get back from Jeffersonville with the troop until late, too late to accept Colonel Summers's invitation; so he had merely dropped in to inquire after his captain, as he thought we would still be here; and now, he said, he must hasten to the warehouse on Magazine Street, as there was no telling how soon he and his men might be needed again. We urged him to stay and make one of a party to go to the theatre, but Mars was adamant. His refusal was even curt. "Pray make my excuses and apologies to the ladies. I'll go down through the hall," were his parting words. And so, without even having touched Kitty's hand or spoken a sentence to her by way of welcome, Mr. Amory took his leave.

Was he "miffed" because he had found Turpin in happy tête-à-tête with her? Had he hoped to reserve that happiness to himself; or was there some deeper reason to account for his avoidance of her? Kitty evidently adopted the first-mentioned explanation of his conduct; ascribed his cold salutation and sudden departure to jealousy,—absolute jealousy,—and I am bound to say that so far from being depressed or saddened by his conduct she seemed to derive additional inspiration or stimulant. A burning color had mounted to her cheeks; her eyes had taken an almost defiant sparkle; her coquetry with Turpin became more marked than before; and, as though elated at the betrayal of Amory's feelings, and excited by the exhibition of his jealousy, she seemed in extraordinary spirits. Turpin promptly accepted the invitation to go to the theatre, provided he could obtain Major Williams's permission to be absent from the battalion during the evening, and went off to see about it forthwith, agreeing to join us at the Royal Street lodgings in fifteen minutes. In less than fifteen minutes we were there. Kitty ran blithely up-stairs to see Pauline, and then Harrod turned to me.

"Brandon, did you notice anything wrong with Amory to-night?" he asked, anxiously.

"He was excited, perhaps upset, at seeing Turpin where he was; but why do you ask?"

"It was something more than that, I fear. Did you notice his eyes, his color? Did you feel his hand?"

"He was flushed, I noticed, and I thought it due to riding all day in the sun; but his hand I did not touch."

"It was burning as though with fever. Can he have been seized as Vinton was?" said the colonel. And for a moment we looked at one another in silence. "You know he has been up and around now for several nights, and exposed all day to the heat of the sun. The extremes are dangerous to those not accustomed to our Louisiana climate, and if he had contracted any disorder this would bring it out. Here comes Mr. Turpin," continued the colonel. "Let us ask him what he observed."

Turpin joined us with his quick, springy step. "The major says I may go," he spoke blithely; "but is not Amory coming?"

"It was of Amory we wanted to ask you," said Harrod. "He seemed very unlike himself the few minutes he was at Moreau's. Did you note anything out of the way?"

Turpin flushed. "Why—yes," said he, hesitatingly. "He seemed a little queer—a good deal stiff and formal and——"

"But as to his health. Do you think he is well?"

"Why," said Turpin, with a sudden start, "I had not thought of that. I ascribed his manner to—to—well, he always was a quick, impulsive fellow, and I thought perhaps he regarded me as being in the way; but his hand was hot,—hot as fire. I'm ashamed I did not think of it before."

And then he stopped short, for Kitty re-entered. She walked smilingly up to Mr. Turpin with extended hand.

"You can go?" she said. "I'm so glad. How soon must we start? Pauline is coming down a moment." And with Pauline's coming we forgot for the time being our talk about Amory.

Very gentle, very lovely, looked Miss Summers as she stood answering our warm inquiries about the major. He was so much better; was sleeping quietly and naturally, the nurse said; and the doctor was so delighted with the improvement, and had let her sit for a while by the bedside and talk to him, though the major himself was forbidden to talk. She was so glad we were going to the theatre. It must be wearisome staying around the house for us, though she could not bear to go. And so we bade her good-night and went on our way.

The Varieties was crowded that night, and an admirable play was on the stage; but my thoughts were incessantly wandering back to Mars, to his strange behavior, and to Bella Grayson and her possible connection with his changed manner. Then, too, I was worried about Harrod's theory,—that the boy was ill. All things considered, I could pay very little attention to what was going on, either in the audience or on the stage. Our seats were in the front row of the dress-circle, a little to the right of the centre of the house; and during the intermission between the first and second acts Kitty and Turpin had been keeping up an incessant chatter, though so low-toned and semi-confidential that I heard nothing of what was said. The house was very full, as I say, and many gentlemen were standing in the side aisles over the proscenium boxes. Others were swarming about the outer row of dress-circle seats. Others still were seated on the steps leading down into the parquet. The curtain rose upon the second act, and Kitty, sitting next to me, with Turpin on her other side, drew back and glanced one minute up in my face. All animation, life, sparkle, and saucy triumph she looked; there was a mischievous challenge in her laughing eyes as they met mine, then wandered off to the stage. Another moment and I turned to her to whisper some comment upon the costume worn by one of the actresses and—how can I describe the change that had come over her face? Pale, startled, yes, frightened. She was staring across the parquet towards a group of men standing in the outer aisle. Following her eyes I too looked, and there, glaring at our party, with a strange, wild, uncanny expression on his face, was Frank Amory.

For an instant nothing was said. Then, involuntarily, I half rose. His eyes met mine, and, without a sign of recognition, he dropped back in the throng and disappeared. "Did you see him?" I exclaimed to Harrod. "Watch! See where he goes! It is Amory, and something is wrong."

The colonel looked at me in startled wonderment, but a glance at Kitty's face seemed to bring him confirmation of my statement. I rose and looked about in my excitement and anxiety, but an indignant "Down in front!" from some half-dozen mouths in rear brought me back to seat and senses. Not until the close of the act could I get out. Then, followed by Harrod, I worked my way into the vestibule, searched the corridors, the bar-room, the main stairway, and the broad entrance. No sign of him. Several infantry officers were standing there, but, in answer to my appeal, said they had seen nothing of Lieutenant Amory; but at the gate the door-keeper remembered a young officer going out in the middle of the second act and declining a return check. I determined to go at once to his lodgings. Harrod would stay and look after Kitty and Turpin.

In half an hour I had reached the warehouse. A sleepy sentinel told me that the lieutenant was not there. He occupied a room "over beyant," in a large frame boarding-house. Ringing the bell, a colored servant answered. Would he show me to Lieutenant Amory's room? He would, and we went up the main stairway and out on a back gallery to one of those little ten by six boxes, without which no New Orleans boarding-place is complete. No answer to our knock, but the door was unlocked, and I entered and turned up the light. There stood his trunk, open. Papers and letters were strewn on the bureau, and among them, almost the first to catch my eye, was a dainty envelope addressed in that graceful, unmistakable hand to Lieutenant Frank Amory at Sandbrook, and forwarded thence to New Orleans. He had had another letter, then, from Bella.

In answer to inquiries, the servant said that Mr. Amory had come in "lookin' mighty tired" late in the afternoon; had taken a bath, dressed, and gone out again without saying a word to anybody, and had not been back since. Telling him he might go, I decided to await Amory's return. I knew not where to search for him.

It was then late. The bells of the churches over on Camp Street and Lafayette Square were chiming ten o'clock. All below was very quiet. The distant roar of wheels down towards Canal Street, and the tinkle of the mule-cars were the only sounds that struck upon the ear. I felt strangely worried and depressed, and sought for something with which to occupy my thoughts and keep me from brooding. Books there were none, for Mars had had no time for reading since his arrival; paper, envelopes, some open letters were on the bureau with her envelope, but the letter it had contained was gone. Tossing them over with impatient hand, I came upon two envelopes addressed in his vigorous hand; one to his mother, the other to Miss Isabel R. Grayson, care of Hon. H. C. Grayson, Syracuse, New York,—further confirmation of my theory. Then there were some scraps of paper on which he had been scribbling; and on one, written perhaps a dozen times, was the name "Kittie." That was his way, then, of spelling it.

An hour passed by. Eleven o'clock came, and no Amory. I could stand it no longer. Once more I went out on Magazine Street, and over to the warehouse. This time a corporal of the guard met me and seemed to know me.

"No, sir. The lieutenant hasn't been in all night, sir, and it isn't his way at all. He may be over at headquarters. Shall I send, sir?"

No. I decided to go myself.

Late as it was, a broad glare of light shone out from the upper windows of the handsome brown-stone residence, occupied at the time by the commanding general as the offices of himself and the staff. The lower hall was open. I entered and went up-stairs to the first open door. One or two officers in undress uniform were lounging about; and, seeing me, Colonel Newhall sprang up and came hastily forward, inviting me to enter. I inquired at once for Amory, and briefly stated that we feared he was not well. This brought to his feet the junior aide-de-camp whom we had seen galloping down Chartres Street the previous night.

"Amory was here early in the evening asking for me," he said, "and he left this note. I cannot understand. He seems worried about something."

I took the note and read,—

"Dear Parker: Both times I've been in to see you to-day, you happened to be out. I must see you. I must get a leave and go North at once. Can you suggest any way of helping me? Some one must take the troop. I'll be in this evening. Do wait for me.

"Yours,

"Amory."

"It is after eleven now and no sign of him," said the aide. "You say you thought he looked ill?"

"Very ill," I answered, "and I am strangely worried."

"Sit down just a few minutes until I see the general. Then, if possible, I'll go with you and see if we can find him."

Perhaps ten minutes afterwards we were on our way back to his temporary quarters, when the aide-de-camp called out to a man whom I saw hurrying along the opposite side of the street under the gas-lamp, and the very corporal who was on duty at the stables came springing over the cobble-stones.

"I was looking for you, sir," he said, breathlessly. "Did you see the lieutenant?"

"No; where is he?"

"I don't know, sir. Directly after you left he jumped off a street-car and ordered us to saddle up. I routed out the first sergeant and the men, but before they could get their clothes and belts on he had leaped on his horse and galloped off down the street like mad. We don't know what to do, sir."

"Which way did he go?" quickly asked the officer with me.

"Down the street, sir, towards Canal."

"Give me one of your fastest horses. Tell the first sergeant I want to see him at once, and let the men unsaddle again."

"What do you think it is?" I anxiously asked.

"Fever; and he is twice as delirious as Vinton was. We must find him at once."

That night we had a chase such as I had never before indulged in. The aide-de-camp believed Frank Amory to be ill with fever:—delirium in fact, but to my knowledge delirium was unusual as a first symptom of an ordinary Southern fever. He might be feverish; might indeed be ill; but that alone would not be apt to cause his extraordinary excitement. Two or three officers at headquarters had remarked his strange manner and absent-minded replies, said the aide, while he had been there early in the evening, but at that time his face was pale rather than flushed.

At the stables on Magazine Street we again questioned the sergeant. "Did the lieutenant appear to be under any strong excitement?" asked the aide-de-camp, and the sergeant eyed him askance a moment as though he misunderstood the drift of the question, seeing which I interposed,—

"The captain fears that Mr. Amory is seized with just such a fever as that which prostrated Major Vinton." Whereat the sergeant looked relieved, and answered,—

"I couldn't say, sir. He never spoke more than to order his horse and then go off at a gallop. But two or three times lately at Sandbrook he has done that,—taken his horse and gone off riding at the dead of night. He may be ill, sir, but I couldn't say."

This news in some way strengthened my view of the case. The fact that he had frequently or occasionally gone off in a similar manner went to prove that the ailment was not a new bodily trouble. Knowing what I knew and felt bound to keep to myself, it was not hard to determine that mental perturbations, aggravated perhaps by recent fatigues and excitements, were at the bottom of Amory's strange conduct. None the less, however, I was eager to find and bring him back. He ought not to be away from his command at such a time. Directing the sergeant to say to Mr. Amory that we were in search of him and begged him to wait for us on his return, the aide-de-camp and I hurried down the street; sought a cab-stand; and, jumping into one of the light cabriolets that were then a feature of the New Orleans streets, we drove rapidly down to Vinton's quarters. I thought Amory might have galloped thither. A dim light was burning in the sick-room, as we could see from the front. The door was closed and locked, but I rang, and presently a servant came sleepily through the hall and stared at me in mild stupefaction. "No. Mr. Amory hadn't been there." I brushed past the darky and went noiselessly up the stairs and tapped at Vinton's door. The nurse came and peered at me through the inch-wide crack: not a whit more would he open the door lest the night air should be wafted in.

"We fear that Lieutenant Amory is taken ill," I said in a low tone. "He may come here to see his captain. Try and get him to lie down in Colonel Summers's room until we get back, if he should come." The nurse nodded; said that Vinton was sleeping quietly, and directed me to Harrod's door. I knocked there, and it was opened in a moment.

"What! you, Brandon? Anything wrong?"

"We can't find Amory. He is on horseback and galloping around town all by himself. They think at headquarters that he may be ill with fever like Vinton. Mr. Parker and I are hunting for him. If he should come here, get him into your room and make him lie down, will you?"

"Certainly I will. But, Brandon, had not I better go with you? Are you sure he is ill? I thought him strange enough at Moreau's, but——"

"I cannot say what it is," I broke in, impatiently. "I must hurry off, as he must be found as quickly as possible."

"With that I turned away and retraced my steps through the dimly-lighted hall. Reaching the stairs I paused, for another door had softly opened, and Pauline's voice, low-toned and anxious, was heard.

"Harrod, what is it?"

"Mr. Amory is ill, I'm afraid," was the reply, and I hurried back to the street.

Rapidly we drove to the levee, and there at the depot found Major Williams's sleeping battalion. The aide sprang out and accosted a sentry. A sergeant came with a lantern and ushered the staff-officer in among the snoring groups; for the men had thrown themselves in their blankets upon the wooden flooring. Presently they reappeared, and with them came Mr. Turpin, hurriedly adjusting his collar and cravat.

"Sheep always was a most excitable fellow," he was saying, "but this beats me. He hasn't been here at all, and I've no idea where he can have gone."

Leaving directions what was to be done in case he did appear, we drove away up Canal Street. It was then nearly two o'clock, but there were still loungers around the Clay statue; lights gleaming from one or two "open-all-night" bars and from the cab-lanterns on St. Charles Street. Our driver pulled up, and Mr. Parker sprang out and exchanged a few words with a policeman. I could not hear, but saw that the latter pointed up the street; and the aide came quickly back,—

"Drive on,—right out Canal, and keep a bright lookout for an officer on horseback," were his orders, as we whirled away over the smooth pavement.

"That policeman says he saw a young officer gallop out this way not ten minutes ago, and he's been wondering ever since what was going on. He walked up as far as Dryades Street to find out, thinking he might have stopped at the State-House; but all is quiet there, and the patrols told him the officer went on out Canal, riding like mad."

Evidently, then, Mars had stopped somewhere or had ridden elsewhere before going out towards the swamps. We peered eagerly up and down the dimly-lighted cross-streets as we whirled rapidly past them. The lamps along the broad thoroughfare grew infrequent; the street was deserted. Once in a while we passed a carriage-load of revellers returning from the shell road and a supper at the "Lake End." Well out towards the stables of the street-railway we caught sight of another policeman; hauled up, and hailed him with anxious questioning. No, he had seen no officer on horseback; his beat lay along Canal Street, but he had "taken a turn through a side street after a couple of s'picious-lookin' parties," and might have been gone four or five minutes. Crack! went the whip, and we pushed ahead. Gas-lamps now became few and far between; open stretches of level turf or prairie were visible here and there between the houses or garden-walls; the moonlight was tempered and shrouded by low-hanging clouds, and surrounding objects were only dimly seen. Still we whirled ahead over the smooth-beaten road, and at last drove rapidly between the high walls of the silent cities of the dead that bounded the highway near the crossing of the canal. Two or three loungers were hanging about the dimly-lighted portico of a saloon. Mr. Parker sprang out and made some rapid inquiries, then hurried back to the cab.

"He crossed here nearly half an hour ago,—went right on over the bridge," he exclaimed, as he sprang in and told the driver to whip up. "Turn to the right," he added. "Drive towards Lake End. It's the only place he can have gone." And in a moment more the wheels were whirring over the level track; a dense hedgerow of swamp undergrowth on our left; the dark waters of the canal on our right.

We passed two or three roadside hostelries, whose enticing lights still lured the belated or the dissipated into the ready bars. Mr. Parker scanned them as we drove ahead.

"He never drinks a drop, I hear, and it's no use looking for him there."

Nevertheless, our driver suddenly pulled up in front of a lamp-lighted entrance. "There's a couple of buggies and a horse in under that shed," said he.

The aide-de-camp jumped out and stepped briskly off in the direction indicated by the driver's hand. Our cab again pulled up. Presently he emerged from the darkness of the shed.

"It isn't Amory's horse. It's a Louisiana pony," said he. "Wait one moment and I'll see who's inside."

With that he sprang up the steps and walked rapidly towards the glass doorways of the bar.

He was in civilian dress except for the forage-cap, which he had hastily picked up when we left the office. Its gold cord and crossed sabres gleamed under the lamp as he sharply turned the door-knob and entered the room. Even without that cap I by this time would have known his profession; he had that quick, springy, nervous walk and erect carriage so marked among the younger West-Pointers. My eyes followed him until he disappeared; so apparently did others.

From the farther end of the gallery two dark forms rose from a sitting posture, and one of them came tiptoeing along towards the doorway. Our cab had halted near the steps at the end opposite them, and, despite our lights, the stealthily-moving figure seemed to pay no attention to us. Before I had time to conjecture what his object could be, the man crouched before the door, his hat pulled low over his forehead, and peered eagerly through the glass. Then he turned his head; gave a low whistle, and, almost at a run, the second figure, in slouch hat like the first and with overcoat pulled well up about his ears, hurried to his side; stooped; peered through, and shook his head.

"Drive up there, quick!" I said. And, as hoof and wheel crunched through the gravel, the pair drew suddenly back; sprang noiselessly down the steps and in among the shrubbery out of my sight. Almost at the same instant Mr. Parker reappeared; took his seat beside me, and, before I could interpose, called out, "Drive on,—Lake End." And away we went, leaving the mysterious strangers in the dusk behind us.

"Amory has not been seen there, nor beyond. There are two young sports in there who came in from Lake End half an hour ago, but they are both pretty full. The barkeeper said there were two more gentlemen who came out from town with another buggy earlier, but they had gone outside."

"I saw them," answered I, "and they are bad characters of some kind. They stole up on tiptoe and peered after you as you went in, then sprang back out of sight as you came out. I wanted to tell you about them. They seemed waiting or watching for somebody."

"Gamblers or 'cappers' probably. Fellows who lie in wait for drunken men with money and steer them into their dens,—fleece them, you know. The streets are full of them day and night."

"Yes; but these men wore slouch hats and overcoats that muffled their faces, and they watched you so oddly. Why did they leap back as you came out?"

"That was odd," said Mr. Parker, thoughtfully. "Could you see nothing of their faces?"

"Nothing at all, except that the first man had a heavy dark moustache, and was tall and stoutly built; the other seemed young and slight; his face was hidden entirely."

The aide-de-camp leaned out and looked back along the dark road; then drew in again.

"No use to look," he said. "Even if they were to follow I could not see; their buggy has no lamps, our rig has to have them. Are you armed?"

"No; I never carry anything."

"Nor I, as a rule; yet had I thought we would come so far at this time of night I would have brought my revolver. Not that any attack is to be feared from those two unless there should be a crowd at their back; otherwise we would be three to two."

"But they are armed, and we are not."

"They think we are, all the same. The average citizen hereabouts goes prepared to shoot if he is on a night-prowl like this. I don't know why I asked if you were armed."

Then for some distance we rattled along in silence. The clouds had grown heavier; a few heavy rain-drops had pattered in on our faces, and the night air was damp and raw. We passed one or two more dark houses, and then came in view of the lights at Lake End. Here, despite the lateness of the hour, one or two resorts seemed still to be open and patronized. Directing the driver to turn towards the lights on the right, Mr. Parker again sprang out, looked in the carriage-shed, then into the bar-room; came out, crossed the way, and made a similar search in a neighboring establishment. Then I saw him questioning a sleepy-looking stableman, and then he came back to me. Perplexity and concern were mingled in his face as he stood there looking up at me in the glare of our lamp.

"Nobody has been here on horseback since midnight. These are the only places open since that hour, and now there are not more than half a dozen people out here—roysterers after a late supper. Where could Amory have gone? Do you suppose he knew his way back by Washington Avenue, and had turned to the left instead of this way?"

"He is an entire stranger in New Orleans,—never was out here before in his life,—and I don't know what to make of it."

He looked at his watch, retook his seat. "We must get back to the bridge," said he. "Driver, stop at Gaston's,—where we were before,—and go lively."

Now through the pattering rain we hurried on our return trip. We were silent, plunged in thought and anxiety. In some way those two skulkers at Gaston's had become connected in my mind with Amory's disappearance. I could not shake off the impression, and, as though the same train of thought were affecting my companion, he suddenly spoke,—

"You say that those men followed me as I went in, and sprang out into the shrubbery as I came back?"

"Yes; as though to avoid being seen by you."

He took off his forage-cap and looked disgustedly at it a moment.

"Confound this thing! Why didn't I wear my hat?" he muttered; then turned suddenly to me: "Mr. Brandon, when we get back to Gaston's let me have your hat, will you? I would like to take another look in there, and if you will stay in the cab, we will stop this side of the entrance, and I'll go ahead on foot. Here, driver, hold up a moment."

Cabby reined in his horse and turned towards us in surprise. The aide-de-camp sprang out in the rain and began working at the lamp.

"Don't put it out, sir; it's against orders," said the driver.

"Never you mind, driver; I'll be responsible for any row there may be over it. There is reason for it, and a mighty good one. Douse that glim on your side. That's right! Now go ahead, lively as you can, and stop just this side of Gaston's."

Then for a while we pushed on in the darkness, and nobody spoke. Finally the driver turned, saying that Gaston's lights were near at hand; presently he reined up. Mr. Parker exchanged head-gear with me; pulled the brim of my roomy black felt well down over his face; and, cautioning us in a low tone to remain where we were, disappeared in the direction of the lights.

It must have been long after three. I was tired and chilled. The driver got out his gum coat and buttoned it around him. Five—ten minutes we waited. No sound but the dismal patter of the rain. Full quarter of an hour passed, it seemed to me, before I saw a lantern coming rapidly out of the darkness in front, and presently Mr. Parker's voice was heard.

"Come on; drive slowly. Go right in to Gaston's," and, even as he spoke, he swung in beside me. "Had Amory any money, do you know?" he asked, before fairly taking his seat.

"No. Why?"

"There is something strange about this affair I cannot fathom. I've been talking with Gaston and one of his men. They have been sitting up waiting for us to get back. Those two footpads were up to some mischief, and I'm afraid it was Amory they were after. You will hear in a moment. Come into the bar," he said, as the cab stopped at the steps.

Another moment and Gaston himself had ushered us into a little room and proceeded to tell his tale. We had no sooner left, he said, than those gentlemen who came from town in the buggy after midnight re-entered the bar, ordered drinks, and asked Gaston to join them. One was a big man, with a heavy moustache, and deep-set eyes under very shaggy brows; he was rather poorly dressed, and had no watch. The other was a young, dark-eyed, handsome fellow, with dark moustache, stylish clothes, and a fine gold watch, which he kept nervously looking at every moment or so. The former did all the talking; the latter paid for everything they ordered both before and after our visit. After a few ordinary remarks the big man asked Gaston who the young officer was, and Gaston, knowing him to be stationed in the city and having often seen him, gave his name. Then they wanted to know who was with him in the cab, and "what took him off so sudden." Gaston had seen nobody with him, but told them unhesitatingly that Mr. Parker was in search of a friend,—an officer who had ridden out on horseback. At this the men had looked suddenly at one another, and very soon after had gone out, saying they believed they would drive back, it looked like rain.

Five minutes afterwards, Louis, the hostler, came into the bar and asked Gaston who those men were, and, on being told that they were strangers, had replied, "Well, they're here for no good, and I'd like to follow them up. They didn't see me out there in the dark, and were talking very low and fast when they came for their buggy." We called Louis in and had his story from his own lips. He had heard their talk, and it alarmed and puzzled him. The big man was saying with an oath that some man they were waiting for must be around there somewhere; he had come across the bridge, for Gaston told them the officer said so. The little man was excited, and had answered, "Well, we've got to tackle him; but don't you drive into any light." With that and some more talk they had got into the buggy and had driven rapidly off towards the Canal Street bridge.

"How long ago?" asked Mr. Parker.

"Full half an hour," was the answer.

"Then we had better start at once," said the aide to me. "What other places are there near here that would be open now, Gaston?"

"None at all. I'd have been shut long ago but for this affair. There are one or two saloons near the bridge and the Metairie track, but none would be open this late."

Thanking them for their information, and promising to let them know if anything resulted, we hurried out to the cab and told the driver to go to the bridge. We were both more than anxious by this time, and were unable to account for the strange proceedings in any satisfactory manner.

The rain seemed to have held up for a few moments, and the veil of clouds thrown over the face of the moon had perceptibly thinned, so that a faint, wan light fell upon roadway, swamp, and canal. The lamps at the crossing burned with a yellowish glare. No one was visible around the bridge or the buildings at the city end,—no one from whom we could obtain information as to the movements of Amory or of the two strangers.

"There are one or two places over here on the upper side I mean to have a look at," said Mr. Parker, "and if no one is there, Amory must have gone back to town."

We had turned to the right, towards Lake Pontchartrain, on coming out. Now the driver was directed to go to the other side. Parker kept peering out into the darkness, and presently the driver said,—

"I think there's a light in there at Gaffney's."

"Hold up, then," said the aide. "Now, Mr. Brandon, lend me your hat again: I'm going to hunt through one or two sheds hereabouts for that buggy. I may be gone ten or twelve minutes. You get the cab into this little side alley here and wait. Those men will be on the watch for our lamps if they are still here, but I can crawl up on them by keeping the cab out of sight."

The side alley proved to be a lane leading through the tall hedge of swampy vegetation. I could not see where it led to, but the driver said it only ran out a few hundred feet to some barns that lay near the old Metairie track. He drove in, however, and halted the cab close under the hedge on one side. Too nervous to sit still, I got out and walked back to the main road, where the buildings of Gaffney's place could be seen. There was, as the driver had said, a dim light, but it seemed to be in one of the rear rooms.

For five minutes all was silent. Then, far up the road, I thought I heard the beat of horses' hoofs coming on at a jog-trot. Listening intently, I soon was assured. Nothing could be seen along the dark shadow of the hedgerow; the light was too feeble to point out objects in the road; but every moment, more and more distinctly, I heard what I felt certain to be a horse and buggy coming towards us. Then all of a sudden the sound ceased.

The approach to Gaffney's was a semicircular sweep of shell road leading from the main highway to the galleries of the saloon. There was probably a distance of a hundred yards between the two entrances. I was standing at the northern end. That buggy had evidently stopped at or very near the other. I almost fancied I could see it. Now, had Parker heard it coming? Waiting a moment more in breathless expectancy, I suddenly heard, as though from the shrubbery in front of Gaffney's, low, prolonged, and clear, a whistle. My nerves leaped with sudden start. The same odd thrill of tremulous excitement seized me that had so mastered me that strange night in the old plantation home at Sandbrook. It was for all the world like the signal-whistle that had so roused me that night, only very much softer. Could it have been from Mr. Parker? Whether it was or no he would probably need me now. I crept into the shadow of the hedgerow and, on tiptoe, hastened up the curve towards the gallery. A dim figure was standing at the end of the house peering towards the other entrance,—a figure that held out a warning hand, and I stole noiselessly up beside it, my heart beating like a trip-hammer. It was Parker.

"Quiet," he whispered; "I think we have treed our buggy friends."

"The buggy is out there on the road," I answered.

"It was, but that whistle will bring it in here. There stands the big man just at the other end of the gallery. He cannot see us; he is looking the other way. Follow me across into the shrubbery and we will get up near him. I'm bound to hear what devilment they are up to."

With that he sprang lightly across. I followed; and, crouching noiselessly along the soft grass, we stole through the low trees and bushes until nearly opposite the southern end of the gallery. Almost at the same instant the buggy came driving up the turn, and a voice uttered an impatient "Whoa!"

"What have you seen?" queried the party in the buggy in a low, agitated voice,—a voice I knew I had heard before, and instinctively reached forth my hand and placed it on my companion's arm.

"Seen! Not a d—d thing. Your blue-bellied skunk has been too smart for you, Cap. He not only hasn't come himself, but he's got his friends out here on your track."

"He has come, I tell you," answered the first speaker. "You know yourself they were asking for him at Gaston's, and that fellow at the bridge told you he saw him ride across."

"Then where'd he go to?" said the other, sulkily and savagely. "No man passed Gaston's on horseback, I can swear to that; and if he came at all as far as the bridge, why didn't he come the rest of the way? Where did he go? How did he get back? Are you sure you wrote plain directions?"

"Plain! Of course I did. I wrote turn towards the lake, to the south, after crossing the bridge, and he'd find me; and so he would, d—n him!" added the younger man between his teeth. His voice was growing more and more familiar to me every moment in its sulky, peevish tones.

"But you said he was a stranger here. How was he to know where the lake lay?"

"Suppose he didn't! I told him to turn south. Any man knows north from south I reckon. Perhaps the white-livered sneak was a Yank at bottom, and lost his nerve."

"Tain't likely. Not from what I seen of him. His kind don't scare so d—d easy at yours, and he came out here to find you, you bet. Why didn't you say turn to the right instead of south? Damfino which is north or south here anyhow. How was he to know?"

"Don't be a fool!" said the other, impatiently, "everybody knows the river runs north and south, and Canal Street runs out right angles to the river, and you turn to the right to go to the lake. It must be south."

Here I couldn't help nudging my neighbor, the aide, who was chuckling with delight at this scientific statement.

"Well, by Gawd! you may know more 'bout it than I do; but when I got off that boat yesterday morning up there by Julia Street, d—n me if the sun wasn't rising in the west then,—over there across Algiers,—and if the Yank is no better posted on the points of the compass than I am, strikes me he's slipped out of your trap easy enough."

"You mean he's gone to the left—past here?" asked the other, snarlingly.

"Just that. He's taken the turn to the left. None of these places this side have been open since we came out; and seeing no one, he's kept on, and probably got back to town some other way. Like enough he's in bed and asleep by this time, and here we've been fooling away the whole night."

Chilled as I was, trembling 'twixt cold and excitement, I was beginning to enjoy this conversation hugely. More than that, both the aide and myself were beginning to feel assured that Amory was safe.

"Then all we can do is go back," said the young man in the buggy, after a moment of silence. "But I'll get that fellow yet," he added, with a torrent of blasphemy. "Get in."

"Where's that flask of yours?" asked the man on the steps. "I want a drink."

"Get in first and I'll give it to you."

Then we heard the creaking of the springs, and the dim, shadowy form of the big man lumbered into the light vehicle. A gurgle and a long-drawn "ah-h-h" followed, then,—

"Got a cigar?"

"Yes; but hadn't we better wait until we get back on Canal Street before lighting them? We want to look out for those other fellows in that cab, you know."

"Oh, d—n them! You can see their lamps half a mile off. Here, give us a match."

Another minute and a feeble glare illuminated the dark interior. Pale and blue at first, it speedily gained strength and lighting power. Eagerly we scanned the two faces, now for one never-to-be-forgotten instant revealed to our gaze. One lowering, heavy-browed, coarse, and bearded; the other—ah, well I knew I had heard that voice, for there, half muffled in the heavy coat, half shrouded by the slouching hat, were the pale, clear-cut, dissipated features I had marked so keenly at Sandbrook. It was the face of Ned Peyton.

Another minute the match, spluttering in the damp night air, was extinguished; but I had seen enough. To the amaze of my companion, to the scandal of any legal or professional education I might have had, indignation got the better of all discretion, and I burst through the shrubbery and laid my hand on the rein.

"Mr. Peyton, I believe," said I, in a tone intended to be double-shotted with sarcasm. "Think we had the pleasure of meeting at Judge——"

"Hell!" hissed a startled voice. "Quick,—drive on!" Crack! went the whip; the horse plunged violently forward; the wheel struck me full on the left leg and hurled me against the stout branches of some dripping bush, and with a whirr of wheels and crushing of gravel the buggy disappeared in the darkness. Mr. Parker ran to my assistance, and together we rushed to our own cab.

"Follow that buggy! Be lively!" was all I could find breath to say to our driver, and then we were off in pursuit. We heard their hoofs and wheels thundering over the bayou bridge, and saw their light vehicle flash under the lamps at the Canal Street end, and that was the last we ever did see of them. Our old horse with his heavy load was no match for theirs. Long before we reached the open road beyond the cemeteries, they were spinning along hundreds of yards out of sight ahead, and gaining at every stride. In hurried words I told the aide-de-camp who the youth was and what I knew about him, and, like myself, he was eager to overhaul him; but it was useless. Not a trace could we find of the precious pair as we drove in town. Day was breaking, and all our thoughts now turned to Amory. Where was he, and how had he escaped the trap?

In the cold, misty dawn we reined up at the Magazine Street warehouse. The sentry, with his head wrapped in the cape of his overcoat, called out the corporal of the guard, and of him we eagerly inquired. Yes. The lieutenant had returned, about an hour ago, his horse covered with mud and much "blown." The lieutenant seemed to have a chill, and had gone right to his room. Thither we followed, and noiselessly ascending the stairs, made our way out to the gallery. A dim light burned in the window; the door was half open, and by the bedside sat a soldier, who at sight of Mr. Parker rose and saluted respectfully.

"What has been the matter, orderly?" asked the aide-de-camp, in a whisper.

"I don't quite know, sir. Lieutenant Amory came home with a bad chill about an hour ago, and quick as he dismounted I came over with him, and he took some quinine and got to bed. He's just gone to sleep. He hasn't been to bed for forty-eight hours, sir, and must be used up."

We stepped forward and bent over him. He had removed his heavy riding-boots and trousers; his cavalry jacket was thrown on the chair at the foot of the bed; and, muffled up in blankets, he lay there, sleeping heavily yet uneasily. He moaned in his slumber, and threw himself restlessly on the other side as we raised the light to see his face. Placing my hand lightly on his forehead, I found it burning; so were his cheeks, his hands. Fever had certainly set in after his chill, but of how severe a character we could not judge, and it would never do to awaken him. We stepped out on the landing, and after a brief consultation, decided that Parker should find the attending surgeon and send him to us as soon as possible. Meantime, I would remain with Amory.

In less than an hour the doctor arrived. Very thoroughly, yet very gently, he examined his patient as to pulse and temperature; closely scrutinized his face, and then replaced the bed-clothing that in his fevered tossing Amory had thrown off. Seeing the anxiety in my eyes, he spoke,—

"Very feverish, and probably quite ill. You did right not to wake him. He will not sleep long, and every little helps. I will stay for the present, and be with him when he does wake, for until then I cannot really judge of his condition. What a night you have had of it, Mr. Brandon! Parker has been telling me something of it."

I glanced half reproachfully at Parker. We had agreed to keep the thing to ourselves until I could see Harrod and consult with him. But the aide promptly relieved me of any misapprehension. He had "named no names," nor had he spoken of the part played by Peyton. Then, at the doctor's suggestion, we withdrew, to seek such rest as we could find after our night in the rain. Leaving Parker at headquarters, with the promise to meet him late in the afternoon, I went to my own rooms, gave my suspicious-looking landlady directions that I was not to be disturbed until noon, and, tired out, slept until after two o'clock.

When I opened my eyes, Harrod Summers rose from an easy-chair in the sitting-room, and came forward to greet me with outstretched hand. One glance at his face showed that he had something of lively interest to tell me, and as I sat up half sleepily in bed and answered his query as to whether I felt rested or any the worse for the night's adventures, I could see plainly that there was some matter that worried him, and divined quite readily that he wanted to speak with me. It all came out while I was shaving and dressing, and, dovetailed with what was already known to Mr. Parker and myself, "a very pretty quarrel" as it stood was unfolded to my ears.

It seems that on leaving the theatre the night previous, Colonel Summers had stepped ahead of Kitty and her friend, Lieutenant Turpin, and was searching for me. Seeing nothing of me in the crowd around the entrance, he looked in at one or two resorts along Canal Street, thinking it possible that he might meet some officers who could tell him of Amory's movements, and so enable him to judge of mine. Meantime, Turpin and Kitty strolled homeward, arm in arm. On reaching the Clay statue, Harrod decided to search no farther, but to go home, feeling sure that if anything were wrong I would follow him thither. At the house Pauline met him with anxious inquiry. Had he seen or heard anything of Mr. Amory? Kitty had returned ten or fifteen minutes before; had bidden Mr. Turpin a very abrupt good-night, and excused herself on the plea of fatigue and headache; and Pauline, following her to her room, found her very pale and nervous, and learned from her that Amory had been at the theatre, looking "so strangely" she thought he was ill; and, as they came down the street, two men in a buggy drove up close beside them, and leaned out and stared at them. She was utterly upset by Amory's appearance, perhaps, and thinking of him, did not notice this performance until Mr. Turpin suddenly dropped her arm and strode fiercely towards the buggy, as though to demand the meaning of the conduct of its occupants; whereupon they had whipped up and dashed off around the first corner; and one of them—though his hat and coat-collar concealed his face—one of them looked, she said, strangely like Ned Peyton. Pauline, seeing her nervousness and fright, had soothed her with arguments as to the impossibility of Peyton's being there; but she very anxiously spoke of the matter to Harrod. Then, after we had made our midnight visit, Kitty, in her loose wrapper, white as a sheet and trembling with dread and excitement, had stolen to Pauline's room. Her own window overlooked the balcony and the street, and unable to sleep, as she told Pauline, she was lying wide awake, when she heard rapid hoof-beats on the pavement coming from Canal Street,—a horse at rapid trot, but with no sound of wheels in company, and the horse halted before their door. Unable to restrain her curiosity or anxiety, she had risen, stolen to the window, and peered out through the slats of the blind. A gas-lamp threw its light upon the street in front, and there, plainly illumined by its glare, sat Frank Amory in the saddle, gazing up at her window. She turned instantly, she knew not why, and stepped back. He could not have seen her, yet, in another moment, rapidly as he came, he rode away, turned to the left at the corner, and she heard his hoof-beats dying away in the direction of Dauphin Street. That was all, until we came, and not until I had gone had she courage to creep over to Pauline and tell her what she had seen.

Early in the morning Harrod had gone to headquarters; found Amory's address, and on going thither was told by a soldier that the lieutenant was too ill to see anybody. But, on sending up his name, the doctor and Mr. Parker came down, and from them he learned that Amory had a sharp attack of fever; nothing like as serious as Vinton's, and one that would soon yield to treatment, provided nothing else went wrong. "There has been some sore trouble or anxiety which has been telling upon Amory," said the doctor, "and that complicates matters somewhat. He may have had some delirium last night, but not enough to cause such a freak as an all-night gallop. In fact, Parker has confided to me that Mr. Brandon and himself know something of the matter, and that they mean to have a talk with you."

"And that," said Harrod, "is what brought me here four hours ago, though I had the grace not to disturb you. Now, what is it? What do you know? Has that young cub Peyton been at the bottom of this?"

And then I told Harrod the story of our night's adventures. He listened at first with composure; but when it came to the description of the two skulkers at Gaston's and the conversation I had overheard, he rose excitedly and began pacing rapidly up and down the room, tugging fiercely at his moustache. Every now and then some muttered anathema fell from his lips. He was evidently powerfully and unpleasantly moved, and when at last my prolix recital was brought to an end with the discovery of Peyton, and our fruitless chase, Harrod burst out into genuine imprecation,—

"The doubly damned young scoundrel!" he groaned. "Why, Brandon, I believe there is no cowardly villainy of which that fellow is not capable. I ought to have gone with you. I knew I ought to have gone."

"Why so?"

"Then we could have secured him by this time. It is too late now, I fear. He is off for Havana or Mexico."

"But what good would that have done? What could we prove? What would you want him secured for now that we have Amory safe and warned against him in the future? You would not care to have the thing made public, would you?"

"Not if that were all! By heaven! the easiest solution of the whole thing would be to let him try to trap Amory once more, and let Amory know all that—that we both know."

"Do you mean that he has been at other mischief than this mysterious attempt at Amory?"

"Yes. We thought him safely out of the way,—in Cuba. He was there, but must have come directly to this point when he heard of the verdict in those Ku-Klux cases. You know they acquitted Smith. No jury could be found that dared do otherwise, I suppose," he added gloomily.

"I knew that, of course; but why should that bring Peyton here?"

"He had to leave Havana, Brandon. Don't you remember father's anxiety at Sandbrook before we came away? and what he said about its perhaps being too late for any effort on his part? I was to have told you, but I couldn't bear to just yet. Why, that damned scoundrel forged father's signature to a large draft, and got the money there where the bankers knew them both. It was only discovered here in New Orleans when the draft came to the Hibernia, and as the loss comes on these old correspondents of father's in Havana, he feels bound to see them reimbursed, for he cannot bear the thought of disgrace to his name or that of a kinsman. By Peyton's arrest we might secure part of the money. That is all, for he has taken every cent father had in the world."

"Then the sooner we get to the chief of police and acquaint him with Peyton's movements and description the better it will be," said I, who felt no scruples whatever against bringing master Ned to the bar of justice.

"It's too late, Brandon, I'm afraid. He saw Amory yesterday and Kitty last night; he knows by this time we are here, and he is miles away. Father had telegraphed at once that he would refund the amount of Peyton's forged raise, and so suspended pursuit or arrest. Peyton of course has heard of this or he would not have ventured hither in the first place; but he well knows that with me here it is no place for him. We will go, of course, and start the detectives, but I fear we have lost him. Do you think Amory can see us this evening and tell us what he knows of this affair?"

"We must see him, unless the doctor prohibits it; but come first to the City Hall," said I. And as we rode thither in a street-car, both deeply engrossed in thought, Harrod turned suddenly towards me,—

"Brandon, this is the most extraordinary piece of cross-purposes to me. For three weeks—for a month past, Frank Amory has been a mystery. We all thought him growing very fond of Kitty, and after the affair on the Tennessee, where he was hurt, she seemed very much interested in him. Now for nearly a month he has avoided her, and she thinks that—well, she gave me a message for him the night we started, which virtually begged his forgiveness for something she had said or done to wound him. She would never have sent it if she did not believe he cared for her. Of course I have never delivered it, because she was here to speak for herself, and told me not to; but he has treated her with something like aversion, and she resents it, and now she's flirting with young Turpin, and then there will be more trouble. Great heavens! what a world of misunderstandings it is!" And Harrod laughed despite his anxiety.

Having some inkling by this time as to the secret of Amory's hesitancy and strange conduct towards Kitty, I told Harrod that a solution of the matter had occurred to me. There was an explanation, I believed, and a satisfactory one, and it would appear very shortly I thought. This, in profound wisdom and some mystery of manner, I imparted to the perplexed colonel. He gazed at me in bewilderment, but was polite enough to press the matter no further.

"A few days will straighten that matter," said I. "We will see when he is well enough to be about again." And in my purblind idiocy I really fancied that letter of mine to Bella Grayson was going to settle everything.

Our visit at police headquarters was brief and not particularly satisfactory. It was already past steamer time for both Havana and Vera Cruz. If Peyton were "wanted," a telegram to the quarantine station, with his full description, might establish whether or no he was on board; but there were no officers there to make the arrest, and an arrest was not wanted in any event,—it was the recovery of the money. If he had not left town it was just barely possible they might nab him; but dozens of river boats left New Orleans for a dozen different points every evening, and there were hundreds of hiding-places in the city itself. He would try, said the chief, and one or two solemn-looking men in civilian's dress came in at his call and listened attentively to our description of Peyton and his companion; but, one and all, they said they would like to hear Lieutenant Amory's account of what he had had to do with the pair. So, taking one of the detectives, we drove up to Amory's lodging.

The doctor was there and came down to meet us. I told him our dilemma, and asked if it were possible to hear Amory's story. He looked grave for a moment, and considered well before answering.

"You might see him, Mr. Brandon, if that will do. I would much rather he did not talk until to-morrow, but if there be an emergency, why, he can stand it. He is doing well, has slept well since his medicine began to take hold this morning, and now he's awake and inclined to be fretful. Something worries him, and perhaps it may be a benefit to see you."

So Harrod and the detective waited, while I went up to interview Mars.

Bless the boy's face! It brightened so at sight of me that I felt like an uncle towards him. He was very pale, rather feeble, but eagerly grasped my hand and welcomed me.

"Mr. Brandon has come to see you on business of some importance, Mr. Amory," said the doctor, "and you can talk with him, but talk as little as possible. We want to get you up and ready to travel, if you are bound to go North, so quiet will be necessary for a day or two."

With that he vanished, taking the nurse with him. Then I told Amory that Parker and I had been in search of him late at night, and fearing he was taken ill, as Vinton had been, we trailed him out to the shell road, and there came upon Peyton and a burly stranger, from whose conversation we found they were lying in wait for him. The moment they were discovered they drove off in a hurry. Could he give any clue by which we could find them? Peyton was "wanted" for a grave crime.

"What?" asked Amory, flushing, and excited.

"Forgery," I answered. "Now let me be brief as possible, Amory. I hate to excite you at such a time. Have you any idea where he is to-day, or who the other man is?"

"None whatever."

"Tell me, quietly as you can, how you came to go out there alone on horseback last night. Were you ill then?"

"Not so ill but that I knew what I was about. I had had some fever all day, probably, and—and was worried about something,—a letter from mother. She wants me to come North at once, and I would have gone but for this. Perhaps it worked on me a good deal. It was late when we got back from Jeffersonville. I wrote a note to Parker, and left it at headquarters, and went on down-town, hoping to see Vinton, and intending to dine with you at Moreau's. I did not feel well, but I wanted to see you. Right there by the City Hotel a passing cab splashed me with mud, and I turned into the barber-shop to have it rubbed off. Quite a number of men were in there, talking a good deal, and seemed to have been drinking, but I paid no particular attention to them, until just as I was leaving one of them said, 'There's the —— ——d Yank now, Peyton. What better chance do you want?' Of course I turned quickly and went right up to the fellow. One or two others sprang forward. Some one said, 'Shut up, you fool!' but it was too late. The man was drunk, probably, and having put his foot in it, had bravado enough not to back out entirely. He was in one of the chairs, his face covered with lather, and as I inquired if he referred to me, he replied, with drunken gravity, that his friend, Mr. Peyton, had expressed a desire to meet me, and 'there he was.' Sure enough there was young Peyton, stepping out from between the chairs to his right, his face black as thunder. I was mad as a hornet, of course, and never stopped to think. 'Are you responsible for this gentleman's language?' said I. 'Just as you please,' said he; and with that I struck him full under the jaw, and knocked him back among the shaving-cups and bottles. Of course there was a terrible row. He drew his pistol, but it was yanked out of his hand by some stranger. A dozen men jumped in and separated us. I didn't know one of them, but they seemed bent on having fair play. He raved about satisfaction, and I said any time and any place. Then a gentlemanly-speaking fellow suggested that the friends or seconds meet at the Cosmopolitan, at ten o'clock; that would give plenty of time, and obviate any trouble there. And before I fully realized the situation it was agreed that we were to settle the thing according to the code, and our friends were to meet at ten o'clock. With that he was led off, and I went out to think the matter over. Of course there was nothing to do but fight. I had knocked him down and was bound to give him satisfaction. But this was no cadet fisticuff; it was a serious matter, and I needed a friend. Of course it ought to be an officer, and now that Vinton was ill, I had no one with whom to advise. I went down to the depot to find Turpin. He was a classmate, and the very fellow to back me; but Turpin wasn't there. I went to Moreau's in search of him, and—well, he was busy, and I couldn't ask him. Then I went up to headquarters for Parker. He was years ahead of me at the Point, but I knew he would see me through; but Parker was out. He lived way up-town, and when I got there they told me he had gone to the theatre. That is what brought me to the Varieties. It was getting late, and I had nobody to act for me. All those infantry fellows were strangers, and at ten o'clock I had to go to the Cosmopolitan myself. Not a soul was there whom I knew, though one or two men dropped in who looked curiously at me, and whom I thought I had seen during the row.

"It was nearly eleven o'clock, and I was wellnigh crazy with excitement and nervousness, fearing that I had made some mistake, and they could say I shirked the meeting. But just about eleven a man came in, who looked closely at me, said 'Captain Amory?' and handed me a note. There's the note, Mr. Brandon; read it."

Read it I did. It was as follows:

"Lieutenant F. Amory, U.S.A.:

"Sir,—In some way for which we find it impossible to account, the authorities have got wind of our affair, and threatened me with arrest; but I learn from a friend that you are at the Cosmopolitan unattended. The gentlemen who were present at the time of your outrageous affront this afternoon were total strangers to me, with one exception, but I cannot believe that they have betrayed me to the police.

"As an officer you must be aware that there can be only one reparation for a blow, and, if a gentleman, you cannot refuse it. You said you would meet me any time and any place, and I hold you to your word. I demand instant satisfaction, before the police can interfere, and there is one place where, if alone, we can be sure of quiet. That is a shooting- and fencing-gallery on the shell road, where there is a room where gentlemen can settle such affairs with swords, and where every attention is paid and inviolable secrecy observed.

"Leaving my friend here with the policeman who is watching our rooms, I shall slip out by the back way and go out on horseback. If you are a man of honor you will follow. Keep on out Canal Street to the end, cross the canal on the bridge, and then turn to the south. I will watch for your horse and conduct you to the spot. The bearer of this will bring a verbal answer, all that is necessary. Reminding you once more of the outrage you have committed upon a gentleman, and of your promise to render full satisfaction at such time and place as I should demand, I am, with due respect,

"Yours, etc.,

"Edward Harrod Peyton."

I read it through twice before speaking, Amory narrowly watching my face.

"And do you mean to tell me, Frank Amory, that you could be led into a snare by such a transparent piece of rascality as that?" I asked at last.

"How should I know?" said Amory, flushing. "The letter reads straight enough. The barbers or somebody might have told the police, and I knew only that Mr. Peyton was a relative of gentlemen and supposed him to be a gentleman. Of course I went."

"All the young scoundrel wanted was to get you there alone and unarmed, and then turn you over to that great bully he had for a terrible beating. He would never dare fight you fairly. This thing is a fraud on its face; no Southern gentleman would ask such a thing of a stranger as a midnight meeting without seconds in an unknown spot. Why, Amory, it is absurd, and as I tell you, and as their talk proved, he only wanted to lure you there and see you brutally pounded and mutilated. The scoundrel knew he must leave town at once, and, hating you, he wanted this low revenge first."

"Why should he hate me?" asked Amory.

"Because of your fight with those villains of Hank Smith's last December, for one thing. He was hand in glove with them all. Because of—well, another reason occurs to me that need not be spoken of just now. I ought not to let you talk so much as it is. Tell me one thing, however. You are anxious to go North, the doctor says. Can I serve you in any way?"

Amory hesitated. "Mother is very anxious that I should come, if possible," he faltered; "and she is right. There—there are reasons why I ought to go and settle a matter that has given me much distress. I told her of it, and she writes that only one course is open to me." And the deep dejection and trouble in his face upset me completely.

"Youngster," said I, impulsively. "Forgive me if I appear to intrude in your affairs, but you have become very near to me, if you know what I mean, in the last few months. We have learned to regard you as something more than a friend, the Summers' and I, and lately it seems to me that an inkling of your trouble has been made known to me (who would have said, 'I have been prying into your affairs?')—and—Frank, don't worry if it is about Bella Grayson. She is my own niece,—you may not know,—and I had a letter from her the other day."

Amory almost started up in bed (capital nurse Mr. G. S. Brandon would make for a fever patient ordinarily, you are probably thinking), but though his eyes were full of eager inquiry and astonishment, he choked back the question that seemed to rise to his lips and simply stared at me, then with flushing cheeks turned quickly away.

"I cannot explain just now; try and be content with what I tell you for a day or two," I went on. "You can hear more when you are better. One thing I want to ask you for the benefit of the detectives who are looking for Peyton. How do you suppose you were so fortunate as to escape missing him and the other blackguard? We found them just below the bridge to the right."

"I don't know," was the weary reply. "Things were all in a whirl after I got that note. I remember telling that fellow to say that I would be there without fail. Then it took some time to hurry up here and get my horse, and to write a line to mother; then I did not go straight out Canal Street. There were one or two things that had to be done; but I rode like the devil to get there, and there wasn't a soul that I could see anywhere around the far end of the bridge."

"But didn't you go down towards the lake,—to the right hand, I mean?"

"To the right? No, of course not," said Amory. "He said to the south; look at the note again and you'll find it; and I had that little compass there on my watch-chain. South was to the left, man, and,—why, it seems to me I rode all night; found myself in town and rode back to the swamps; then gave it up and came home somehow; I don't know. It was all a blur."

Then, fortunately, the doctor came back, and, with one glance at Amory's face, motioned to me that enough or more than enough had been said. I bent over Amory and said, with the best intentions in the world of being reassuring, "Remember, do not fret about going North or about anything else of that kind; that is coming out all right." And with the profound conviction that it was coming out all right through his ministration, the recorder of this curious tangle took his leave.