V.

"What a trump that young fellow McLean seems to be, doctor," said Mr.

Holmes, reflectively, late that night as the two men were smoking a

final cigar together.

"Oh, he's not a bad lot by any means," was the reply. "Good deal of a

boy, you know. Has no experience of life. Doesn't know anything, in

fact, except what professional knowledge he picked up at the Point. You

can't expect anything else of an infantry subaltern whose army life has

been spent out in this God-forsaken country."

"Why do you always run down this country, doctor? It's a glorious

country, a magnificent country. I declare I hate the clatter and racket

and rush of Chicago more and more every time I go back to it."

"That's all very well. You are unmarried, and can come and go as you

please. If you were a man of family and compelled as I am to bring up a

daughter in these barbaric wilds, or even to live here at all,--a man

of my tastes and antecedents,--you'd curse the fates that landed you in

the army. Still, I would not mind it so much if it were not for Nellie.

It is galling to me to think of her having to spend so much of her fair

young life in these garrison associations. Who is there here, except

possibly Miss Forrest, who, by birth, education, and social position,

is fit to be an intimate or friend? What opportunities has a girl of

her--pardon my egotism--parentage in such a mill as this?"

Holmes almost choked over his cigar. He bent impulsively forward as

though to speak, but gulped back his words, shook his head, and began

puffing vigorously once more. He felt that the time had not yet come.

He knew that with her he was making no progress whatever. She had been

cordial, sweet, kind, as befitted her father's daughter to her father's

guest; but this day, as though her woman's wit were fathoming the

secret of his heart, a suspicion of reserve and distance had been

creeping into her manner and deepening toward night. Then he recalled

Miss Forrest's trenchant words; he remembered the white face that came

back from the peep into the empty hall. Was McLean the man "nearer her

own years" who had already found a lodgement in her heart? He had come

back full of admiration for the young soldier whose pluck and ambition

had prompted him to beg for service on a probably dangerous expedition,

a pursuit of the band that had wounded his comrade and killed two of

his men. He wanted to know more of him.

"Speaking of young McLean, who is he? The name is one of the best."

"Oh, he's only distantly related to the main line, I fancy. The

country is full of them, but only a few belong to _the_ McLeans. Of

course, I suppose they all hail from the old Highland clan, but even

there the line of demarcation between chieftain and gillie of the same

name was broad as the border itself. If the young fellow had money or

influence he'd come out well enough, provided he could travel a year

or so. He needs polish, _savoir-faire_, and he can't travel because

he's in debt and hasn't a penny in the world."

"How in debt? One would suppose a young fellow of his appearance could

live on his pay, unless he drank or gambled. I rather fancied he wasn't

given to that sort of thing."

"Oh, it isn't that; he's steady enough. The trouble with McLean is some

commissary stores that were made away with by his sergeant when he was

'acting' here last winter. He could hardly help it, I suppose: the

sergeant was an expert thief and hid his stealings completely, and made

a very pretty penny selling bacon and flour and sugar and coffee to

these Black Hills outfits going up the last year or so. When the

regimental quartermaster got back and the stores were turned over to

him, the sergeant promptly skipped, and McLean was found short about

six hundred dollars' worth. They had a board of survey last winter, and

the orders in the case were only finally issued a few weeks ago just as

he returned from leave. He's got to make it all up out of his pay,--he

has nothing else."

"Isn't that pretty rough on the youngster?"

"Yes, perhaps, but it's business. He won't have such confidence in

human nature again. If that sergeant were back here I could account for

the disappearance of your porte-monnaie by a surer hypothesis than that

you lost it or dropped it. Are you sure you dropped it?"

"Well, no, I can't be sure," said Holmes, knocking the ashes off his

cigar, "but it could have so happened, very easily. I was talking

earnestly all the way home from the store, where we stopped coming back

from stables, you remember, and I'm getting absent-minded at times.

Besides, how else could it have gone, supposing it to have been in the

pocket of the overcoat when I hung it in the hall just before dressing

for dinner? You have had Robert years."

"He has been with me over seven years, and came to me with a high

character from the old First Artillery. I never heard of his being even

suspected of dishonesty."

"He is the only man who has been in the hall to-night. No one could

have come in from the front while we were at dinner."

"No one without our knowledge. The door has a queer sort of latch or

lock. Sometimes in high winds it would let go and blow open, but some

servant who had lived here before we came put Robert up to a way of

catching it that proved very effective. No; nobody was in the hall

except McLean, and of course that is out of the question. Besides, he

had not time. He was only there half a minute or so."

Mr. Holmes bowed without speaking. He remembered perfectly, however,

that it was nearer five minutes that Mr. McLean had to wait there while

the doctor was finishing that confounded story. Nevertheless, as the

doctor said, that was out of the question.

"Oh, no!" he broke in hurriedly, "I cannot think any one here could

have taken it. It will turn up somewhere among my other traps to-night,

or else I've dropped it. Don't think of it, doctor; that distresses me

far worse than the loss. Suppose we turn in now, and I'll look around

my room once more."

Half an hour later the doctor tapped softly at his guest's door.

"Found it?" he asked.

"No, not yet; going to bed," was the answer, accompanied by an

ostentatious yawn. "Good-night, doctor."

Mr. Holmes had indeed found no pocket-book. The discovery he made was

far less welcome. An amethyst pin with sleeve-buttons to match, a piece

of personal property that he highly valued, had disappeared from his

dressing-case. There were three pairs of sleepless eyes in the doctor's

quarters when the sentries were shouting the call of "Half-past twelve

o'clock." Nellie Bayard, in her dainty little white room, was

whispering over a tear-stained pillow her prayer for the safety of

Randall McLean, who was riding post-haste down the swollen Platte. Dr.

Bayard, too excited to go to bed, had thrown himself on a sofa and was

plotting for the future and planning an alliance for his fair daughter

that would mean power and position for himself. And Mr. Holmes was

sitting with darkened face at his bedside, gazing blankly at the

handkerchief he had picked up on the floor just in front of the bureau,

a handkerchief embroidered in one corner with the letters R. McL.

* * * * *

Over at the major's quarters were other sleepless eyes. It was late,

nearly midnight, when the commanding officer finished dictating his

telegraphic despatches to department head-quarters, and when he reached

his home Mrs. Miller was still sitting up for him. A faithful and

devoted spouse she was,--something of the Peggy O'Dowd order, and prone

at times to order him about with scant ceremony, but quickly resentful

of any slight from other sources. She could not bear that any man or

woman should suppose for an instant that her major was not the

embodiment of every attribute that became a soldier and a man. She

stood between him and the knowledge of many a little garrison squabble

or scandal rather than have him annoyed by tales that were of no

consequence; but now she had that to tell that concerned the honor and

welfare of the whole command, and she felt that he must know at once.

"Major," she said to him when once they had gained the seclusion of the

marital chamber, "has Captain Bruce ever said anything further to you

about that story from Robinson last winter?"

"N-nothing much," answered Miller, who dreaded that something more of

the same kind was coming, and would gladly have avoided the subject.

"I know that he bade Mrs. Bruce destroy the letter she got and say no

more about it," pursued Mrs. Miller, "but she and I are very old

friends, as you know, and she could not well avoid telling me that

after I told her of the letter I got. Now, it was bad enough that these

things should have occurred there, and that suspicion should have

attached to some one in Captain Forrest's household; but things are

worse than ever now. Have you seen Mr. Hatton to-day?"

"I've seen him, of course, but he didn't say anything on--on such a

subject."

"Now, I don't want you to blame Mr. Hatton, major. You must remember

that he has always said that I was like a mother to him because I

nursed him through the mountain fever, and he has always confided in me

ever since; but the other night while he was at the Gordons', the same

night he came here after tattoo, somebody went to his room and stole

from his trunk over one hundred and fifty dollars in greenbacks and a

beautiful scarf-pin that his brother gave him."

"And he did not report it to me?" asked the major, impetuously.

"He did not then, though he meant to, because Mr. McLean induced him to

promise not to, because----"

"Well, because what? What reason could young McLean assign that could

justify his concealing such a matter from the commanding officer?"

"Because he said it was cruel to allow a woman to be suspected, when

she had no man in the garrison--husband, brother, or father--to take

her part."

"A woman! What? some servant?"

"Worse than that, major,--Miss Forrest."

Bang! dropped the heavy boot the major had just pulled from his foot,

and, one boot off and the other boot on, he started up and stood

staring at his wife in blank amaze.

"Listen, dear," she said, "heaven knows it is no pleasure to tell it.

She was seen, so my letter said, in the quarters of the officer who was

robbed at Red Cloud, the night he was officer of the day. They lived,

you know, in the same building. The night Mr. Hatton's trunk was opened

she came very late to the Gordons'. Very probably it was she with whom

Mr. McLean collided out on the parade, though I hushed you summarily

when you began to joke about it, and Mr. Hatton hints that McLean could

tell more if he would, but he has firmly set his lips against saying a

word. However, that was before to-night. Now for something even worse,

because it has happened to a guest within our gates. Mr. Holmes's

porte-monnaie with over one hundred dollars was taken from his

overcoat-pocket as it hung in the hall to-night, and I saw her go out

there while you were having your after-dinner smoke. I saw her go out

there and stand by the hat-rack and pretend to be patting and admiring

that beautiful fur. My back was turned, but the mirror over the mantel

showed it."

"How do you know he lost it?"

"He told me confidentially that he was sure it was taken from his

pocket, but he is trying to make the doctor believe he lost it through

his own carelessness."

"Seems to me you have confidential relations all around, Eliza; what

more has been imparted to you as a secret?"

"Nothing," answered Mrs. Miller, paying no attention whatever to the

first portion of the remark; "I have heard quite enough, combined with

what we all know, to make me feel that either crime or kleptomania is

going on, and the 'Queen of Bedlam' is at the bottom of it."

"What is it that 'we all know?'"

"That she dresses in most extravagant style; that she has suddenly had

to quit her uncle's roof, where she lived for years, and come out here

to be a burden on her brother, who has nothing but his pay, unless you

count an invalid wife and a riotous young brood as assets. She is

strange, odd, insolent, and defiant in manner. Shuns all friendship,

and refuses to tell anybody what was the cause of her leaving New York

as she did. One thing more,--she has sent two registered letters from

here within the last three days----"

"Now, how do you know that?" burst in the major, an angry light in his

eyes.

"Well, my dear, don't fly off at a tangent. It is a perfectly natural

thing to speak of. Hardly anybody ever sends registered letters."

"That's not so; there are dozens sent by the officers and men after

every pay-day."

"I mean hardly any women, major. I'm not talking of the men. Hardly any

woman ever sends a registered letter, and so when she sent two it was

not at all strange that Mrs. Griffin should speak of it to the

steward's wife, and she told Mrs. Gordon's Sally, and so it came to

me."

"Oh, yes. I'll be bound it reached you sooner or later," said the major

wrathfully. "I'm d-blessed if anything goes on at this or any other

post you women don't get hold of and knock out of shape. I shall tell

Griffin that his position as postmaster won't be worth the powder to

blow him into the middle of the Platte if that wife of his doesn't hold

her tongue. No, I won't listen to any more of it to-night, anyway. I

want to think over what you have told me."

* * * * *

And over at Bedlam there were lights still burning at one o'clock. One

of them shone from Mr. Hatton's room at the north end of the second

floor. He was officer of the day, and that accounted for it. The other

beamed from the corner window at the south, and a tall, graceful,

womanly form, wrapped in a heavy shawl, was leaning against the wooden

pillar on the veranda. A beautiful face was upturned to the few stars

that peeped through the rifts of clouds that angrily swept the heavens.

Then, as one jewelled hand clasped the railing, the other encircled the

cold, white, wooden post, and in another moment the shapely head was

bowed upon it, and great sobs shook the slender figure. There was the

sudden rattle of an infantry sword at the other end of the piazza, and

Mr. Hatton, striding forth from the hall-way, was startled to see a

dim, feminine form spring from the shadows at the southern side and

rush with sweeping skirts into the shelter of the Forrests' hall-way.

"I thought I heard some one crying out here," he muttered, "and

supposed it was Mrs. Forrest. She's always in tears now that the

captain is up in the Indian country. But who would have thought of Miss

Forrest?"