When morning came, the order that they should go was temporarily suspended:  some prisoners were sent to a neighboring military prison, and he was placed in charge, and on his return from this duty learned that the colonel’s family had gone to Sablon.  The next thing there was some strange talk that worried him,—­a story that one of the men who had a sweetheart who was second girl at Mrs. Hoyt’s brought out to camp,—­a story that there was an officer who was too much in love with Alice to keep away from the house even after the colonel so ordered, and that he was prowling around the other night and the colonel ordered Leary to shoot him,—­Leary, who was on post on Number Five.  He felt sure that something was wrong,—­felt sure that it was due to his night visit,—­and his first impulse was to find his mother and confide the truth to her.  He longed to see her again, and if harm had been done, to make himself known and explain everything.  Having no duties to detain him, he got a pass to visit town and permission to be gone a day or more.  On Saturday evening he ran down to Sablon, drove over, as Captain Armitage had already told them, and, peering in his mother’s room, saw her, still up, though in her nightdress.  He never dreamed of the colonel’s being out and watching.  He had “scouted” all those trees, and no one was nigh.  Then he softly called; she heard, and was coming to him, when again came fierce attack:  he had all a soldier’s reverence for the person of the colonel, and would never have harmed him had he known ’twas he:  it was the night watchman that had grappled with him, he supposed, and he had no compunctions in sending him to grass.  Then he fled again, knowing that he had only made bad worse, walked all that night to the station next north of Sablon,—­a big town where the early morning train always stopped,—­and by ten on Sunday morning he was in uniform again and off with his regimental comrades under orders to haste to their station,—­there was trouble with the Indians at Spirit Rock and the ——­th were held in readiness.  From beneath his scouting-shirt he drew a flat packet, an Indian case, which he carefully unrolled, and there in its folds of wrappings was the lovely Directoire photograph.

Whose, then, was the one that Sloat had seen in Jerrold’s room?  It was this that Armitage had gone forward to determine, and he found his sad-eyed lieutenant with the skirmishers.

“Jerrold,” said he, with softened manner, “a strange thing is brought to light this morning, and I lose no time in telling you.  The man who was seen at Maynard’s quarters, coming from Miss Renwick’s room, was her own brother and the colonel’s step-son.  He was the man who took the photograph from Mrs. Maynard’s room, and has proved it this very day,—­this very hour.”  Jerrold glanced up in sudden surprise.  “He is with us now, and only one thing remains, which you can clear up.  We are going into action, and I may not get through, nor you, nor—­who knows who?  Will you tell us now how you came by your copy of that photograph?”