And so the emissaries returned unsuccessful.  Then, too, as we have seen, despite his good intention of keeping matters hushed as much as possible, Chester’s nervous irritability had got the better of him, and he had made damaging admissions to Wilton of the existence of a cause of worriment and perplexity, and this Wilton told without compunction.  And then there was another excitement, that set all tongues wagging.  Every man had heard what Chester said, that Mr. Jerrold must not quit the garrison until he had first come and seen the temporary commanding officer, and Hall had speedily carried the news to his friend.

“Are you ready to go?” asked Mr. Jerrold, who was lacing his boots in the rear room.

“No.  I’ve got to go and get into ‘cits’ first.”

“All right.  Go, and be lively!  I’ll wait for you at Murphy’s, beyond the bridge, provided you say nothing about it.”

“You don’t mean you are going against orders?”

“Going?  Of course I am.  I’ve got old Maynard’s permission, and if Chester means to revoke it he’s got to get his adjutant here inside of ten seconds.  What you tell me isn’t official.  I’m off now!”

And when the adjutant returned to Captain Chester it was with the information that he was too late:  Mr. Jerrold’s dog-cart had crossed the bridge five minutes earlier.

Perhaps an hour later the colonel sent for Chester, and the captain went to his house.  The old soldier was pacing slowly up and down the parlor floor.

“I wanted you a moment.  A singular thing has happened.  You know that ‘Directoire’ cabinet photo of Alice?  My wife always kept it on her dressing-table, and this morning it’s gone.  That frame—­the silver filigree thing—­was found behind a sofa-pillow in Alice’s room, and she declares she has no idea how it got there.  Chester, is there any new significance in this?”

The captain bowed assent.

“What is it?”

“That photograph was seen by Major Sloat in Jerrold’s bureau-drawer at reveille this morning.”

And such was the situation at Sibley the August day the colonel took his wife and her lovely daughter to visit Aunt Grace at Lake Sablon.

VIII.

In the big red omnibus that was slowly toiling over the dusty road several passengers were making their way from the railway-station to the hotel at Lake Sablon.  Two of them were women of mature years, whose dress and bearing betokened lives of ease and comfort; another was a lovely brunette of less than twenty, the daughter, evidently, of one of these ladies, and an object of loving pride to both.  These three seemed at home in their surroundings, and were absorbed in the packet of letters and papers they had just received at the station.  It was evident that they were not new arrivals, as were the other passengers, who studied them with the half-envious feelings with