Armitage sat down and scrutinized the man again without relaxing his severity.

“You think you have seen me somewhere, so you have followed me in the streets to make sure.  When did this idea first occur to you?”

“I saw you at Fort Myer at the drill last Friday.  I have been looking for you since, and saw you leave your horse at the hotel this afternoon.  You ride at Rock Creek—­yes?”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Breunig?” asked Armitage.

“I was in the army, but served out my time and was discharged a few months ago and came to Washington to see where they make the government—­yes?  I am going to South America.  Is it Peru?  Yes; there will be a revolution.”

He paused, and Armitage met his eyes; they were very blue and kind,—­eyes that spoke of sincerity and fidelity, such eyes as a leader of forlorn hopes would like to know were behind him when he gave the order to charge.  Then a curious thing happened.  It may have been the contact of eye with eye that awoke question and response between them; it may have been a need in one that touched a chord of helplessness in the other; but suddenly Armitage leaped to his feet and grasped the outstretched hands of the little soldier.

“Oscar!” he said; and repeated, very softly, “Oscar!”

The man was deeply moved and the tears sprang into his eyes.  Armitage laughed, holding him at arm’s length.

“None of that nonsense!  Sit down!” He turned to the door, opened it, and peered into the hall, locked the door again, then motioned the man to a chair.

“So you deserted your mother country, did you, and have borne arms for the glorious republic?”

“I served in the Philippines,—­yes?”

“Rank, titles, emoluments, Oscar?”

“I was a sergeant; and the surgeon could not find the bullet after Big Bend, Luzon; so they were sorry and gave me a certificate and two dollars a month to my pay,” said the man, so succinctly and colorlessly that Armitage laughed.

“Yon have done well, Oscar; honor me by accepting a cigar.”

The man took a cigar from the box which Armitage extended, but would not light it.  He held it rather absent-mindedly in his hand and continued to stare.

“You are not dead,—­Mr.—­Armitage; but your father—?”

“My father is dead, Oscar.”

“He was a good man,” said the soldier.

“Yes; he was a good man,” repeated Armitage gravely.  “I am alive, and yet I am dead, Oscar; do you grasp the idea?  You were a good friend when we were lads together in the great forest.  If I should want you to help me now—­”

The man jumped to his feet and stood at attention so gravely that Armitage laughed and slapped his knee.

“You are well taught, Sergeant Oscar!  Sit down.  I am going to trust you.  My affairs just now are not without their trifling dangers.”

“There are enemies—­yes?” and Oscar nodded his head solemnly in acceptance of the situation.