IX.

When Captain Armitage left the cottage that night he did not go at once

to his own room. Brief as was the conversation he had enjoyed with Miss

Renwick, it was all that Fate vouchsafed him for that date at least. The

entire party went to tea together at the hotel, but immediately

thereafter the colonel carried Armitage away, and for two long hours

they were closeted over some letters that had come from Sibley, and when

the conference broke up and the wondering ladies saw the two men come

forth it was late,--almost ten o'clock,--and the captain did not venture

beyond the threshold of the sitting-room. He bowed and bade them a

somewhat ceremonious good-night. His eyes rested--lingered--on Miss

Renwick's uplifted face, and it was the picture he took with him into

the stillness of the summer night.

The colonel accompanied him to the steps, and rested his hand upon the

broad gray shoulder.

"God only knows how I have needed you, Armitage. This trouble has nearly

crushed me, and it seemed as though I were utterly alone. I had the

haunting fear that it was only weakness on my part and my love for my

wife that made me stand out against Chester's propositions. He can only

see guilt and conviction in every new phase of the case, and, though

you see how he tries to spare me, his letters give no hope of any other

conclusion."

Armitage pondered a moment before he answered. Then he slowly spoke:

"Chester has lived a lonely and an unhappy life. His first experience

after graduation was that wretched affair of which you have told me. Of

course I knew much of the particulars before, but not all. I respect

Chester as a soldier and a gentleman, and I like him and trust him as a

friend; but, Colonel Maynard, in a matter of such vital importance as

this, and one of such delicacy, I distrust, not his motives, but his

judgment. All his life, practically, he has been brooding over the

sorrow that came to him when your trouble came to you, and his mind is

grooved: he believes he sees mystery and intrigue in matters that others

might explain in an instant."

"But think of all the array of evidence he has."

"Enough, and more than enough, I admit, to warrant everything he has

thought or said of the man; but--"

"He simply puts it this way. If he be guilty, can she be less? Is it

possible, Armitage, that you are unconvinced?"

"Certainly I am unconvinced. The matter has not yet been sifted. As I

understand it, you have forbidden his confronting Jerrold with the

proofs of his rascality until I get there. Admitting the evidence of the

ladder, the picture, and the form at the window,--ay, the letter,

too,--I am yet to be convinced of one thing. You must remember that his

judgment is biassed by his early experiences. He fancies, that no woman

is proof against such fascinations as Jerrold's."

"And your belief?"

"Is that some women--_many_ women--are utterly above such a

possibility."

Old Maynard wrung his comrade's hand. "You make me hope in spite of

myself,--my past experiences,--my very senses, Armitage. I have leaned

on you so many years that I missed you sorely when this trial came. If

you had been there, things might not have taken this shape. He looks

upon Chester--and it's one thing Chester hasn't forgiven in him--as a

meddling old granny; you remember the time he so spoke of him last year;

but he holds you in respect, or is afraid of you,--which in a man of his

calibre is about the same thing. It may not be too late for you to act.

Then when he is disposed of once and for all, I can know what must be

done--where she is concerned."

"And under no circumstances can you question Mrs. Maynard?"

"No! no! If she suspected anything of this it would kill her. In any

event, she must have no suspicion of it _now_."

"But does she not ask? Has she no theory about the missing photograph?

Surely she must marvel over its disappearance."

"She _does_; at least, she _did_; but--I'm ashamed to own it,

Armitage--we had to quiet her natural suspicions in some way, and I told

her that it was my doing,--that I took it to tease Alice, put the

photograph in the drawer of my desk, and hid the frame behind her

sofa-pillow. Chester knows of the arrangement, and we had settled that

when the picture was recovered from Mr. Jerrold he would send it to me."

Armitage was silent. A frown settled on his forehead, and it was evident

that the statement was far from welcome to him. Presently he held forth

his hand.

"Well, good-night, sir. I must go and have a quiet think over this. I

hope you will rest well. You need it, colonel."

But Maynard only shook his head. His heart was too troubled for rest of

any kind. He stood gazing out towards the park, where the tall figure of

his ex-adjutant had disappeared among the trees. He heard the low-toned,

pleasant chat of the ladies in the sitting-room, but he was in no mood

to join them. He wished that Armitage had not gone, he felt such

strength and comparative hope in his presence; but it was plain that

even Armitage was confounded by the array of facts and circumstances

that he had so painfully and slowly communicated to him. The colonel

went drearily back to the room in which they had had their long

conference. His wife and sister both hailed him as he passed the

sitting-room door, and urged him to come and join them,--they wanted to

ask about Captain Armitage, with whom it was evident they were much

impressed; but he answered that he had some letters to put away, and he

must attend first to that.

Among those that had been shown to the captain, mainly letters from

Chester telling of the daily events at the fort and of his surveillance

in the case of Jerrold, was one which Alice had brought him two days

before. This had seemed to him of unusual importance, as the others

contained nothing that tended to throw new light on the case. It said,--

"I am glad you have telegraphed for Armitage, and heartily approve your

decision to lay the whole case before him. I presume he can reach you by

Sunday, and that by Tuesday he will be here at the fort and ready to

act. This will be a great relief to me, for, do what I could to allay

it, there is no concealing the fact that much speculation and gossip is

afloat concerning the events of that unhappy night. Leary declares he

has been close-mouthed; the other men on guard know absolutely nothing,

and Captain Wilton is the only officer to whom in my distress of mind I

betrayed that there _was_ a mystery, and he has pledged himself to me to

say nothing. Sloat, too, has an inkling, and a big one, that Jerrold is

the suspected party; but I never dreamed that anything had been seen or

heard which in the faintest way connected _your_ household with the

matter, until yesterday. Then Leary admitted to me that two women, Mrs.

Clifford's cook and the doctor's nursery-maid, had asked him whether it

wasn't Lieutenant Jerrold he fired at, and if it was true that he was

trying to get in at the colonel's back door. Twice Mrs. Clifford has

asked me very significant questions, and three times to-day have

officers made remarks to me that indicated their knowledge of the

existence of some grave trouble. What makes matters worse is that

Jerrold, when twitted about his absence from reveille, loses his temper

and gets confused. There came near being a quarrel between him and

Rollins at the mess a day or two since. He was saying that the reason he

slept through roll-call was the fact that he had been kept up very late

at the doctor's party, and Rollins happened to come in at the moment and

blurted out that if he was up at all it must have been after he left the

party, and reminded him that he had left before midnight with Miss

Renwick. This completely staggered Jerrold, who grew confused and tried

to cover it with a display of anger. Now, two weeks ago Rollins was most

friendly to Jerrold and stood up for him when I assailed him, but ever

since that night he has had no word to say for him. When Jerrold played

wrathful and accused Rollins of mixing in other men's business, Rollins

bounced up to him like a young bull-terrier, and I believe there would

have been a row had not Sloat and Hoyt promptly interfered. Jerrold

apologized, and Rollins accepted the apology, but has avoided him ever

since,--won't speak of him to me, now that I have reason to want to draw

him out. As soon as Armitage gets here he can do what I cannot,--find

out just what and who is suspected and talked about.

"Mr. Jerrold, of course, avoids me. He has been attending strictly to

his duty, and is evidently confounded that I did not press the matter of

his going to town as he did the day I forbade it. Mr. Hoyt's being too

late to see him personally gave me sufficient grounds on which to excuse

it; but he seems to understand that something is impending, and is

looking nervous and harassed. He has not renewed his request for leave

of absence to run down to Sablon. I told him curtly it was out of the

question."

The colonel took a few strides up and down the room. It had come, then.

The good name of those he loved was already besmirched by garrison

gossip, and he knew that nothing but heroic measures could ever silence

scandal. Impulse and the innate sense of "fight" urged him to go at once

to the scene, leaving his wife and her fair daughter here under his

sister's roof; but Armitage and common sense said no. He had placed his

burden on those broad gray shoulders, and, though ill content to wait,

he felt that he was bound. Stowing away the letters, too nervous to

sleep, too worried to talk, he stole from the cottage, and, with hands

clasped behind his back, with low-bowed head he strolled forth into the

broad vista of moonlit road.

There were bright lights still burning at the hotel, and gay voices came

floating through the summer air. The piano, too, was thrumming a waltz

in the parlor, and two or three couples were throwing embracing,

slowly-twirling shadows on the windows. Over in the bar-and

billiard-rooms the click of the balls and the refreshing rattle of

cracked ice told suggestively of the occupation of the inmates. Keeping

on beyond these distracting sounds, he slowly climbed a long, gradual

ascent to the "bench," or plateau above the wooded point on which were

grouped the glistening white buildings of the pretty summer resort, and,

having reached the crest, turned silently to gaze at the beauty of the

scene,--at the broad, flawless bosom of a summer lake all sheen and

silver from the unclouded moon. Far to the southeast it wound among the

bold and rock-ribbed bluffs rising from the forest growth at their base

to shorn and rounded summits. Miles away to the southward twinkled the

lights of one busy little town; others gleamed and sparkled over towards

the northern shore, close under the pole-star; while directly opposite

frowned a massive wall of palisaded rock, that threw, deep and heavy and

far from shore, its long reflection in the mirror of water. There was

not a breath of air stirring in the heavens, not a ripple on the face of

the waters beneath, save where, close under the bold headland down on

the other side, the signal-lights, white and crimson and green, creeping

slowly along in the shadows, revealed one of the packets ploughing her

steady way to the great marts below. Nearer at hand, just shaving the

long strip of sandy, wooded point that jutted far out into the lake, a

broad raft of timber, pushed by a hard-working, black-funnelled

stern-wheeler, was slowly forging its way to the outlet of the lake, its

shadowy edge sprinkled here and there with little sparks of lurid

red,--the pilot-lights that gave warning of its slow and silent coming.

Far down along the southern shore, under that black bluff-line, close to

the silver water-edge, a glowing meteor seemed whirling through the

night, and the low, distant rumble told of the "Atlantic Express"

thundering on its journey. Here, along with him on the level plateau,

were other roomy cottages, some dark, some still sending forth a guiding

ray; while long lines of white-washed fence gleamed ghostly in the

moonlight and were finally lost in the shadow of the great bluff that

abruptly shut in the entire point and plateau and shut out all further

sight of lake or land in that direction. Far beneath he could hear the

soft plash upon the sandy shore of the little wavelets that came

sweeping in the wake of the raft-boat and spending their tiny strength

upon the strand; far down on the hotel point he could still hear the

soft melody of the waltz; he remembered how the band used to play that

same air, and wondered why it was he used to like it; it jarred him now.

Presently the distant crack of a whip and the low rumble of wheels were

heard: the omnibus coming back from the station with passengers from the

night train. He was in no mood to see any one. He turned away and walked

northward along the edge of the bench, towards the deep shadow of the

great shoulder of the bluff, and presently he came to a long flight of

wooden stairs, leading from the plateau down to the hotel, and here he

stopped and seated himself awhile. He did not want to go home yet. He

wanted to be by himself,--to think and brood over his trouble. He saw

the omnibus go round the bend and roll up to the hotel door-way with its

load of pleasure-seekers, and heard the joyous welcome with which some

of their number were received by waiting friends, but life had little of

joy to him this night. He longed to go away,--anywhere, anywhere, could

he only leave this haunting misery behind. He was so proud of his

regiment; he had been so happy in bringing home to it his accomplished

and gracious wife; he had been so joyous in planning for the lovely

times Alice was to have,--the social successes, the girlish triumphs,

the garrison gayeties of which she was to be the queen,--and now, so

very, very soon, all had turned to ashes and desolation! She _was_ so

beautiful, so sweet, winning, graceful. Oh, God! _could_ it be that one

so gifted could possibly be so base? He rose in nervous misery and

clinched his hands high in air, then sat down again with hiding,

hopeless face, rocking to and fro as sways a man in mortal pain. It was

long before he rallied and again wearily arose. Most of the lights were

gone; silence had settled down upon the sleeping point; he was chilled

with the night air and the dew, and stiff and heavy as he tried to walk.

Down at the foot of the stairs he could see the night-watchman making

his rounds. He did not want to explain matters and talk with him: he

would go around. There was a steep pathway down into the ravine that

gave into the lake just beyond his sister's cottage, and this he sought

and followed, moving slowly and painfully, but finally reaching the

grassy level of the pathway that connected the cottages with the

wood-road up the bluff. Trees and shrubbery were thick on both sides,

and the path was shaded. He turned to his right, and came down until

once more he was in sight of the white walls of the hotel standing out

there on the point, until close at hand he could see the light of his

own cottage glimmering like faithful beacon through the trees; and then

he stopped short.

A tall, slender figure--a man in dark, snug-fitting clothing--was

creeping stealthily up to the cottage window.

The colonel held his breath: his heart thumped violently: he

waited,--watched. He saw the dark figure reach the blinds; he saw them

slowly, softly turned, and the faint light gleaming from within; he saw

the figure peering in between the slats, and then--God! was it

possible?--a low voice, a man's voice, whispering or hoarsely murmuring

a name: he heard a sudden movement within the room, as though the

occupant had heard and were replying, "Coming." His blood froze: it was

not Alice's room: it was his,--his and hers--his wife's,--and that was

surely her step approaching the window. Yes, the blind was quickly

opened. A white-robed figure stood at the casement. He could see, hear,

bear no more: with one mad rush he sprang from his lair and hurled

himself upon the shadowy stranger.

"You hound! who are you?"

But 'twas no shadow that he grasped. A muscular arm was round him in a

trice, a brawny hand at his throat, a twisting, sinewy leg was curled in

his, and he went reeling back upon the springy turf, stunned and

wellnigh breathless.

When he could regain his feet and reach the casement the stranger had

vanished; but Mrs. Maynard lay there on the floor within, a white and

senseless heap.