It was full ten minutes before Mr. McLean reissued from his quarters on
his return to the major's house. In the mean time he had searched his
desk and summed up his losses. They amounted to mere trifles--a few
postage-stamps and perhaps five dollars in currency--which happened to
be lying in the drawer above his tobacco receptacle. "Lucky I hadn't
got my April pay yet!" thought he. There were some handsome
sleeve-buttons and a scarf-pin or two in another drawer, but these had
not been touched,--the pilferer had been interrupted too soon. Some
letters and notes that were lying in the lower pigeon-holes had
evidently been objects of scrutiny, but were still there--so far as he
had time to count. He had left a jolly little gathering at the
Millers', and he was eager to return; he had left them only at Mrs.
Miller's urgent request that he should bring over his "scrap-book," in
which he had a miscellaneous assortment of photographs of army friends
and army scenes, of autographs, doggerel rhymes, and newspaper
clippings, such as "Spelling Tests" and "Feats in Pronunciation," and a
quantity of others containing varied and useful information. It was a
great standby and resource of his, and had helped to while away many an
evening on the frontier. Now, Mrs. Miller had been telling Nellie
Bayard about it, and was eager that she should see it. The major, too,
and several ladies present, all united in the request and enjoined upon
him to hurry back. As "Bedlam" lay but a hundred yards away, there was
no reason why he should not have returned in five minutes, but it was
fifteen when he reappeared, and was, as became the only young man in
the room, the immediate centre of combined question and invective.
"What could have kept you so long?" "Where on earth have you been?"
"Were it anybody but Mr. McLean, I would say he had gone down to the
club-room for a drink," etc. Nellie Bayard alone was silent. The
question that occurred to her was finally asked by Mrs. Miller,--
"Why, Mr. McLean, how white you look! Have you seen a ghost?"
"No," he answered, laughing nervously. "I've seen nothing. It is dark
as Erebus outside, and I ran into something I couldn't see at
all,--something too tangible for a ghost."
"Who was it or what was it?"
"That's what I'm dying to know. I was out in the very middle of the
parade, and this something was scurrying over toward Gordon's quarters
as I was coming here. We ran slap into each other. I sang out, 'Halloo!
Beg pardon,' and began hunting for the book that was knocked out from
under my arm, and this figure just whizzed right on,--never answered at
all."
"Odd!" said the major. "Some one of the men, do you think? been over
paying a visit to a sweetheart in some kitchen of the opposite
quarters?"
"Well, no," answered McLean, coloring and hesitating. "It might have
been some sweetheart going over to visit the east side and taking a
short cut across the parade. It wasn't a man."
"Oh! That's it, of course," chimed in Mrs. Brenham at once. "The
Johnsons have a girl--Winnie they call her--who is perpetually gadding
about, and I warrant it was she. Come! Let us see the scrap-book."
And so the party returned to the business of the evening and were soon
absorbed in the pages of McLean's collection. He had many a question to
answer, and was kept from the seat he longed to take, by Nellie
Bayard's side. Where three or four women are gathered together over an
album of photographs or a scrap-book of which he is the owner, no man
need hope to escape for so much as an instant. Yet she was watching him
and wondering at what she saw,--the effort it cost him to pay attention
to their simplest question--the evident distraction that had seized
upon him.
By and by tattoo sounded. The major went out with McLean to receive the
reports, and when they returned Mr. Hatton came too.
"Where have you been, Mr. Hatton?" asked Mrs. Miller. "We've been
looking for you all the evening, and wouldn't have a bite or a glass of
wine until you came in."
"Over at the Gordons'. They are having a little gathering too, mostly
of the refugees,--regular hen convention. I was the only man there for
over an hour."
"Who all were there?" inquired the hostess--her Southern birth and her
woman's interest in the goings-on of the garrison manifesting
themselves at one and the same time.
"Oh, about a dozen, all told," answered Mr. Hatton. "Mrs. Bruce and
Jeannie, Mrs. Forrest, Mrs. Post, the Gordon girls, Mrs. Wells, and
finally Miss Forrest. The little parlor was packed like a ration-can by
nine o'clock, and I was glad to slip away at first call."
"A likely statement in view of the fact that Jeannie Bruce was there."
"Fact, though!" answered Hatton, with a knowing look on his handsome
face. He did not want to say it was because Jeannie Bruce went home at
"first call" and that he escorted her.
McLean would be sure to understand that point, however, thought Mr.
Hatton to himself, and to obviate the possibility of his mischievously
suggesting that solution of the matter it might be well to tip him a
wink. Looking around in search of his chum, Mr. Hatton was surprised at
the odd and wretched expression on McLean's face. The tall young
subaltern had seated himself at last by Nellie Bayard's side, but
instead of devoting himself to her, as was to have been expected, he
was staring with white face at Hatton and drinking in every word.
"Why, what's the matter, old man? You look all struck of a heap!"
exclaimed Hatton, in genuine concern.
"Mr. McLean encountered a spook on his way over here," laughed the
major, seeing that McLean, in embarrassment, knew not how to reply. "He
ran afoul of a flying Dutchwoman out on the parade in the dark, and was
mystified because she would not stop and chat with him."
"What nonsense, major!" sharply interposed his better half. "You know
we settled it long ago that that must have been the Johnsons' Winnie on
one of her gad-abouts. Why do you add to the mischief?"
"Hm!" responded her lord in a broad grin. "Coming from a woman, that is
a stinger. Can't a fellow have a little fun at McLean's expense without
being accused of scattering scandal?"
"You are only too ready to accuse one of us of starting malicious
stories," replied his wife, with honest indignation. "It might be as
well for you to consider the possible effect of your own words."
"What possible effect--ill effect, that is--could my remark have had
even if repeated?" demanded the major in amusement.
"Well, never you mind now; I'm glad we all understand one another here
at any rate," answered Mrs. Miller, earnestly. "Now let us have peace
and a truce to the spook story. Mrs. Taylor, now won't you sing?"
"Really, Mrs. Miller, I ought not to stay another moment. I left the
nurse in charge of my babies, and I know perfectly well that by this time
she is out at the back gate flirting with Sergeant Murray. Indeed, Mr.
McLean, I do wish you would confine that altogether-too-utterly-attractive
young man to the limits of the barracks. He's at our gate morn, noon, and
night, and whenever he's there my Maggie is there too, and the children
might scream themselves hoarse and she never hear. Why, I'm a perfect
slave! I can't go anywhere. It's just do for those precious babies from
dawn till midnight. I might as well have no nurse at all. Oh, no, indeed,
Mrs. Miller. I must go this minute. Indeed I must. But, Mr. Hatton, how
did it happen that Miss Forrest only came in late?"
"More than I know, Mrs. Taylor. She said she was unable to come earlier
on account of letters or something. I didn't pay much attention. You
see there were six women around me already. I've never known the bliss
of being an undoubted belle until this spring."
"Then I suppose, too, she stopped to dress. You know Fanny Forrest has
such beautiful dresses, Mrs. Miller, and she's hardly had a chance to
show one of them since she got here. What did she wear this evening,
Mr. Hatton?"
"'Pon my soul, I don't know. It was a dress, of course, blue or
green--or something."
"Yes--something, undoubtedly; but what was it like? Did it----?"
"The idea of asking me to describe a woman's dress! Why, I don't know a
poplin from a polonaise, though I suppose there's a distinction of some
kind. All I know is that this one shimmered and had things all over it
like No. 12 shot or Sioux moccasin beads, and it swished and rustled as
she walked through the hall and up the stairs."
"Oh, I know,--that long silk princesse--electric blue--that came from
New York last October and----Beg pardon. What?"
"Not you, Mrs. Taylor. Go on!" said Mrs. Miller, pleasantly. "Mr.
Hatton's servant has just called for him at the door. Wants to see him
a moment." And Hatton left the parlor with the major at his heels.
An hour later, after seeing Nellie Bayard home, and striving in vain to
be like his actual self, Mr. McLean hurried to his quarters. Just as he
expected, Hatton was standing in front of the open fireplace puffing
furiously at a chunky little brierwood pipe. He looked up from under
his heavy eyebrows as McLean came in, but said nothing. The occupant of
the room filled and lighted his own particular "cutty," and threw
himself into an easy chair, first divesting himself of the handsome
uniform "blouse" he had worn during the evening, and getting into an
easy old shooting-jacket. Then through a cloud of fragrant smoke the
two men looked silently at each other. It was Hatton who spoke first:
"Well, Mac."
"What's up, Hatton?"
"Missed anything to-night?"
"Nothing to speak of," answered McLean, coloring. He had the hatred of
his race for the faintest equivocation.
"Well, I have, and I thought you might have been visited likewise. My
bureau and dressing-case have been ransacked and I'm out a good two
hundred dollars' worth.
"The devil you say!"
"Have you lost nothing?"
"Five dollars or so,--as I said, nothing I wanted to mention."
"Why?"
"Well--because."
"A woman's reason, Mac."
"How do you know a woman's the reason?" asked McLean, almost fiercely,
as he started from the chair. He had only imperfectly heard his
friend's muttered words.
"I don't!--and that isn't what I said," replied Hatton, coolly. "But
see here,--now we've got down to it," and he stopped to emit two or
three voluminous puffs of smoke from under his thick moustache. "It
would appear that the thief went through the next-door premises despite
the presence of nurses and servants and children,--and then dropped
some of his plunder here. Eh?" and he held forth a dainty handkerchief.
McLean took it, his hands trembling, and a creeping, chilling sensation
running through his fingers. It was of finest fabric, sheer and soft
and very simply embroidered. It was without, rather than with, surprise
lie found the letters "F. F." in one corner. He raised it, and, not
knowing what to say for the moment, sat there inhaling the delicate
fragrance that hung about the white folds.
"Where'd you find it?" he finally asked.
"Just at the foot of your bureau, Mac. It was lying there when I came
in, half an hour ago."
"Then it's mine to dispose of at least," said McLean, as he rose
promptly from his chair, stepped quickly to the fireplace, and tossed
the dainty toy among the flames. The next instant the last vestige of
it was swept from sight, and the two men stood looking quietly into
each other's eyes.