“Yours truly,

“JOHN PENHALLOW.”

“I put on this separate sheet for you alone the adventure you ask for.  It is the only one worth telling, and came to me this Christmas morning.  It was strange enough.

“An old Colonel caught me as I was about to visit Tom McGregor at the hospital.  I was disgusted, but he wanted an engineer.  He got me, alas!  We rode far to our left over icy snow-crust.  To cut my tale short, after we passed our outlying pickets and I had answered a dozen questions, he said, ‘Can you see their pickets?’ I said, ’No, they are half a mile away on the far side of a creek in the woods.  That road leads to a bridge; they may be behind the creek.’

“‘Do you think it fordable?’

“‘I do not know.’  Like a fool, I said, ’I will ride down the road and get a nearer look.’  He would be much obliged.  I rode Hoodoo down an icy hill with a sharp lookout for their pickets.  As I rode, I slipped my revolver out and let it hang at my wrist.  I rode on cautiously.  About a quarter of a mile from the creek I made up my mind that I had gone far enough.  The creek was frozen, as I might have known, and the colonel too.  As I checked Hoodoo a shot rang out from a clump of pines on my right and a horseman leaped into the road some twenty yards in front of me.  I fired and missed him.  He turned and rode pretty fast toward the bridge, turning to fire as he went.  I like a fool rode after him.  We exchanged shot after shot.  He was on the farther end of the bridge when he pulled up his horse and stopped short.  He held up a hand; I felt for my sword, having emptied my revolver.  It was rather ridiculous.  By George! the man was laughing.  We were not fifty feet apart when I reined up Hoodoo.  We had each fired six shots in vain—­I had counted his.

“He called out, ‘A rather pretty duel, sir.  Don’t ride over the bridge.’  A picket shot from the left singing over my head rather emphasized his warning.  ‘It would not be fair—­you would ride right into my pickets.’  It was an unusual bit of chivalry.

“I called out, ’Thank you, I hope I have not hit you.  May I ask your name?’

“’I am at your service.  I am’—­here Captain John wrote merrily—­’Scheherazade who says—­

“Being now sleepy, the Caliph will hear the amazing sequel to-morrow night or later.

“There you have my adventure all but the end.  If I do not hear more of Miss Grey’s personal adventures she will never—­never, hear the name.

“JOHN PENHALLOW.”

He laughed outright as he closed and directed the envelope.  I suppose, he wrote in his diary, that as there are several Leilas, there are also several John Penhallows, and I am just now the mischievous lad who was so much younger than Miss Grey.  Would she laugh over the lesson of his letter or be angry, or cry a little and feel ill-treated, or—­and even that was possible—­say it was of no moment who the man was.  He felt the gaiety which