“Only one.  If that money was ever handed me that day at Battle Butte, only one man could have made away with it; and it is useless to charge it to him.”

“You mean Rayner?”

“I have to mean Rayner.”

“But you claim it never reached you?”

“Certainly.”

“Yet every other package—­memoranda and all—­was handed you?”

“Not only that, but Captain Hull handed me the money-packet with the others,—­took them all from his saddle-bags just before the charge.  The packet was sealed when he gave it to me, and when I broke the seal it was stuffed with worthless blanks.”

“And you have never suspected a soldier,—­a single messenger or servant?”

“Not one.  Whom could I?”

“Hayne, had you any knowledge of this man Clancy before?”

“Clancy!  The drunken fellow we pulled out of the fire?”

“The same.”

“No; never to my knowledge saw or heard of him, except when he appeared as witness at the court.”

“Yet he was with the ——­th Cavalry at that very fight at Battle Butte.  He was a sergeant then, though not in Hull’s troop.”

“Does he say he knew me? or does he talk of that affair?” asked the lieutenant, with sudden interest.

“Not that.  He cannot be said to say anything; but he was wonderfully affected over your rescuing him,—­strangely so, one of the nurses persists in telling me, though the steward and Mrs. Clancy declare it was just drink and excitement.  Still, I have drawn from him that he knew you well by sight during that campaign; but he says he was not by when Hull was killed.”

“Does he act as though he knew anything that could throw any light on the matter?”

“I cannot say.  His wife declares he has been queer all winter,—­hard drinking,—­and of course that is possible.”

“Sam told me there was a soldier here two nights ago who wanted to talk with me, but the man was drunk, and he would not let him in or tell me.  He thought he wanted to borrow money.”

“I declare, I believe it was Clancy!” said the doctor.  “If he wants to see you and talk, let him.  There’s no telling but what even a drink-racked brain may bring the matter to light.”

And long that night Mr. Hayne sat there thinking, partly of what the doctor had said, but more of what had occurred during the late afternoon.  Midnight was called by the sentries.  He went to his door and looked out on the broad, bleak prairie, the moonlight glinting on the tin roofing of the patch of buildings over at the station far across the dreary level and glistening on the patches of snow that here and there streaked the surface.  It was all so cold and calm and still.  His blood was hot and fevered.  Something invited him into the peace and purity of the night.  He threw on his overcoat and furs, and strolled up to the gateway, past the silent and deserted store, whose lighted bar and billiard-room