For a man ordinarily absorbed in his own command, Colonel Stanley Armstrong had become, all on a sudden, deeply engrossed in that of Colonel Canker.  The Frosts had been gone a week, via Vancouver ­the expedition only about sixteen hours ­when he appeared at Gordon’s tent and frankly asked to be told all that tall Southerner knew of the young soldier Morton, now gone from camp for the third, and, as Armstrong believed, the last time.

“Why, that young fella’s a bawn gentleman,” drawled Gordon, as he offered the colonel a chair and cigar.  “He was behavin’ tip top, steady as you please until about a month ago.  He’s only been with us since the first of May ­came with a big batch of recruits ­a regular athlete, you know.  Then after he’d drilled awhile I nailed him for headquarters clerk.  I never knew him to be off an hour until about four weeks ago.  The men say another young fella came out here one night, had a talk with Morton, and they went out together.  He got regular permission.  Nobody has set eyes on his friend out here since that time, but Morton got three passes to town in ten days, and Squeers happened to want him, and gave orders he should have to be consulted hereafter.  ’Bout a fortnight since, by Jove, Morton lit out suddenly and was gone forty-eight hours, and was brought back by a patrol, perfectly straight, and he said he had to go on account of a friend who had been taken very ill and was a stranger here.  Squeers let him off with a warning, and inside of three days he begged for a twenty-four-hour pass, and Squeers wouldn’t give it.  He went without it, by George!  It was just about the time the Prime family arrived, looking up the boy they heard was in your regiment.  This time there was big trouble.  The patrol sent for him went directly to the lodgings of his sick friend, and there they found him and he laid out two of our best men for forcing a way into the room.  They told me your carriage nearly ran over him the day of the review.  Then came that dam fool charge about his being mixed up in this robbery.  Then his escape from under Billy Gray’s nose, by George, and that’s the last of him.  Canker sent a party in to look him up at the usual place, and both birds had flown, both, by George!  The sick man was well enough to be driven off in a carriage, and there’s nothing further to tell as yet.”

“I wish I had known about him earlier ­before the Primes came,” said Armstrong thoughtfully, knocking the ashes off his cigar.  “Of course you divine my theory?”

“That Morton’s the missing son and heir?  Of course.  Now that I’ve seen Miss Prime the family resemblance is strong.  But if he wanted to soldier, what’s to prevent.  Those tents yawnduh are full of youngsters better educated than I am,” and Gordon arose, tangling a long, lean leg in the nearest campstool, which he promptly kicked through the doorway into the sailing fog outside.  It was barely eleven o’clock, but already the raw, wet wind was whistling in over the barren, sandy slopes and dunes, and the moisture dripped in big drops from the sloped rifles of the men marching sturdily in from drill.

“Yawnduh comes the Prime carriage now, by George,” continued the adjutant, as he limped to the entrance.  “Olé man seems all broke up, don’t he?” Armstrong had promptly risen and came striding to his comrade’s side.

“Naturally,” was the answer.  “He had hoped much from this visit.  The boy was just under twenty-one when he enlisted, and, as his father’s consent was lacking, a discharge could have been ordered.  It may have been fear of that that drove the youngster off.  Where is the carriage ­and your glass?” continued the colonel, looking about until he found a binocular.

“Comin’ right down the road back of the officers’ tents.  Reckon it’s another visit of condolence to Gray.  You know I shouldn’t wonduh if this arrest of his proved a blessin’ in disguise for that lucky boy.”

No reply coming to this observation, Gordon glanced over his shoulder.  Armstrong was replacing the glasses.  Again the adjutant hazarded.

“I ­I was sayin’ this arrest may be, after all, the biggest kind of blessing in disguise for that lucky Billy. Yes, by Jove!  They’re comin’ to his tent. That’s a splendid girl, olé man!”

“Miss ­Prime, you mean?” calmly queried Armstrong, striking match after match in the effort to light a fresh cigar, his face averted.

“Miss Prime I don’t mean,” answered Gordon, glancing curiously at the senior officer.  “Not but that she’s a most charming young lady and all that,” he hurriedly interpolated, Southern chivalry asserting itself.  Then with a twitch about the lip:  “By the way, olé man, those cigars light better from the other end.  Take a fresh one.”

Armstrong quickly withdrew the ill-used weed from between his strong, white teeth, gave it one glance, and a toss into the waste-basket.

“No, I’ve smoked enough.  But how can they see him?  How about that sentry over Gray’s tent?”

“Huh!  Chief made him take it off directly he heard of it,” grinned Gordon.  “Moses!  But didn’t Squeers blaspheme!” And the adjutant threw his head back and laughed joyously over the retrospect.  “Yes, there’s that curly pate of Billy’s at the tent door now.  Reckon he was expectin’ ’em.  There they are, olé Prime, too.  Don’t be in a hurry, colonel.”

They had known each other years, these two, and it had been “Armstrong” and “Gordon” when they addressed each other, or “olé man” when Gordon lapsed into the semi-affectionate.  To the adjutant’s Southern sense of military propriety “olé man” was still possible.  “Armstrong” would be a soldierly solecism.

“I am to see the General before noon,” said Armstrong gravely, “and it’s time I started.  If you should hear of your runaway let me know.  If you shouldn’t, keep our views to yourself.  There’s no use in rousing false hopes.”  With that Armstrong turned up the collar of his overcoat and lunged out into the mist.

Gordon watched him as he strode away, the orderly following at the conventional distance.  The shortest way to general headquarters was up the row of company officers’ tents in front of the still incarcerated Billy; the longest was around back of the mess tent and kitchen.  Armstrong took the latter.

That escape of prisoners was still the talk of camp.  Men had come by battalions to see the tunnel, observing which Canker promptly ordered it closed up.  Opinion was universal that Canker should have released the officers and men he had placed under arrest at once, but he didn’t.  In his bottled wrath he hung on to them until the brigade commander took a hand and ordered it.  Canker grumblingly obeyed so far as the sergeant and sentries were concerned, but entered stout protest as to Gray.

“I still hold that officer as having knowledge of the scheme and aiding and abetting.  I can prove that he telephoned for that carriage,” he said.

“At least there’s nothing to warrant the posting of that sentry at Mr. Gray’s tent, Colonel Canker,” said the brigadier, with some asperity.  “Order him off at once.  That’s all for to-day, sir,” and the man with the starred shoulders “held over” him with the silver leaves.  The latter could only obey ­and objurgate.

But Canker’s knuckles came in for another rasping within the hour.  The brigadier being done with him, the division commander’s compliments came over per orderly, and would the colonel please step to the General’s tent.  Canker was fuming to get to town.  He was possessed with insane desire to follow up that boarding house clue.  He believed the landlady could be bullied into telling where her boarder was taken, and what manner of man (or woman) he was.  But down he had to go, three blocks of camp, to where the tents of division headquarters were pitched, and there sat the veteran commander, suave and placid as ever.

“Ah, colonel, touching that matter of the robbery of your commissary stores.  Suspicion points very strongly to your Sergeant Foley.  Do you think it wise to have no sentry over him?”

“Why ­General,” said Canker, “I’ve known that man fifteen years ­in fact, I got him ordered to duty here,” and the colonel bristled.

“Well ­pardon me, colonel, but you heard the evidence against him last night, or at least heard of it.  Don’t you consider that conclusive?”

Canker cleared his throat and considered as suggested.

“I heard the allegation sir, but ­he made so clear an explanation to me, at least ­and besides, General” ­a bright idea occurring to him ­“you know that as commissary sergeant he is not under my command ­”

“Tut, tut, colonel,” interrupted the General, waxing impatient.  “The storehouse adjoins your camp.  Your sentries guard it.  Captain Hanford, the commissary, says he called on you last night to notify you that he had placed the sergeant under arrest, but considered the case so grave that he asked that a sentry be placed over him, and it wasn’t done.”

“I dislike very much to inflict such indignity on deserving soldiers, General,” said Canker, stumbling into a self-made trap.  “Until their guilt is established they are innocent under the law.”

“Apparently you apply a different rule in case of officers,” calmly responded the General, “vide Mr. Gray.  No further words are necessary.  Oblige me by having that sentry posted at once.  Good-morning, sir.”

But to Canker’s dismay the officer of the guard made prompt report.  The sentry was sent, but the sergeant’s tent was empty.  The colonel’s pet had flown.  This meant more trouble for the colonel.

Meantime Stanley Armstrong had hied him to General Drayton’s headquarters.  The office tents were well filled with clerks, orderlies, aides and other officers who had come in on business, but this meeting was by appointment, and after brief delay the camp commander excused himself to those present and ushered Armstrong into his own private tent, the scene of the merry festivities the evening of Mrs. Garrison’s unexpected arrival.  There the General turned quickly on his visitor with the low-toned question: 

“Well ­what have you found?”

“Enough to give me strong reason for believing that Morton, so-called, is young Prime, and that your nephew is with him, sir.”

The old soldier’s sad eyes lighted with sudden hope.  Yet, as he passed his hand wearily over his forehead, the look of doubt and uncertainty slowly returned.  “It accounts for the letters reaching me here,” he said, “but ­I’ve known that boy from babyhood, Armstrong, and a more intense nature I have never heard of.  What he starts in to do he will carry out if it kills him.”  And Drayton looked drearily about the tent as though in search of something, he didn’t quite know what.  Then he settled back slowly into his favorite old chair.  “Do sit down, Armstrong.  I want to speak with you a moment.”  Yet it was the colonel who was the first to break the silence.

“May I ask if you have had time to look at any of the letters, sir?”

“Do I look as though I had time to do any-thing?” said the chief, dropping his hands and uplifting a lined and haggard face, yet so refined.  “Anything but work, work, morn, noon and night.  The mass of detail one has to meet here is something appalling.  It weighs on me like a nightmare, Armstrong.  No, I was worn out the night after the package reached me.  When next I sought it the letters were gone.”

“How long was that, General?”

Again the weary hands, with their long, tapering fingers, came up to the old soldier’s brow.  He pondered a moment.  “It must have been the next afternoon, I think, but I can’t be sure.”

“And you had left them ?”

“In the inside pocket of that old overcoat of mine, hanging there on the rear tent pole,” was the answer, as the General turned half-round in his chair and glanced wistfully, self-reproachfully thither.

Armstrong arose, and going to the back of the tent, made close examination.  The canvas home of the chief was what is known as the hospital tent, but instead of being pitched with the ordinary ridgepole and uprights, a substantial wooden frame and floor had first been built and over this the stout canvas was stretched, stanch and taut as the head of a drum.  It was all intact and sound.  Whoever filched that packet made way with it through the front, and that, as Armstrong well knew, was kept tightly laced, as a rule, from the time the General left it in the morning until his return.  It was never unlaced except in his presence or by his order.  Then the deft hands of the orderlies on duty would do the trick in a twinkling.  Knowing all this, the colonel queried further: 

“You went in town, as I remember, late that evening and called on the Primes and other people at the Palace.  I think I saw you in the supper room.  There was much merriment at your table.  Mrs. Garrison seemed to be the life of the party.  Now, you left your overcoat with the boy at the cloak stand?”

“No, Armstrong, that’s the odd part of it.  I only used the cape that evening.  The coat was hanging at its usual place when I returned late, with a mass of new orders and papers.  No! no!  But here, I must get back to the office, and what I wished you to see was that poor boy’s letter.  What can you hope with a nature like that to deal with?”

Armstrong took the missive held out to him, and slowly read it, the General studying his face the while.  The letter bore no clue as to the whereabouts of the writer.  It read: 

  “March 1st, ’98.

“It is six weeks since I repaid all your loving kindness, brought shame and sorrow to you and ruin to myself, by deserting from West Point when my commission was but a few short months away.  In an hour of intense misery, caused by a girl who had won my very soul, and whose words and letters made me believe she would become my wife the month of my graduation, and who, as I now believe, was then engaged to the man she married in January, I threw myself away.  My one thought was to find her, and God knows what beyond.

“It can never be undone.  My career is ended, and I can never look you in the face again.  At first I thought I should show the letters, one by one, to the man she married, and ask him what he thought of his wife, but that is too low.  I hold them because I have a mad longing to see her again and heap reproaches upon her, but, if I fail and should I feel at any time that my end is near, I’m going to send them to you to read ­to see how I was lured, and then, if you can, to pity and forgive.

“ROLLIN.”

Armstrong’s firm lips twitched under his mustache.  The General, with moist eyes, had risen from his chair and mechanically held forth his hand.  “Poor lad!” sighed Armstrong.  “Of course ­you know who the girl was?”

“Oh, of course,” and Drayton shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, we’ll have to go,” and led on to the misty light without.

Over across the way were the headquarters tents of a big brigade, hopefully awaiting orders for Manila.  To their left, separated by a narrow space, so crowded were the camps, were the quarters of the officers of the ­teenth Infantry, and even through the veil of mist both soldiers could plainly see along the line.  Coming toward the gate was Mr. Prime, escorted by the major.  Just behind them followed Mildred and the attentive Schuyler.  But where was Miss Lawrence?  Armstrong had already seen.  Lingering, she stood at Billy’s tent front, her ear inclined to his protruding pate.  He was saying something that took time, and she showed no inclination to hurry him.  Miss Prime looked back, then she and Schuyler exchanged significant smiles and glances.  There was rather a lingering handclasp before Amy started.  Even then she looked back at the boy and smiled.

“H’m!” said the General, as he gazed, “that youngster wouldn’t swap places with any subaltern in camp, even if he is under charges.”

There was no answer from the strong soldier standing observant at his elbow.  But when the chief would have moved Armstrong detained him.  “One more question, General.  In case you were away and wanted something you had left in this tent, you would send an aide ­or orderly, or ­would an order signed by one of your staff be sufficient?”

“H’m, well ­yes, I suppose it would,” said the General.