and blurted out that if he was up at all it must have been after he left the party, and reminded him that he had left before midnight with Miss Renwick.  This completely staggered Jerrold, who grew confused and tried to cover it with a display of anger.  Now, two weeks ago Rollins was most friendly to Jerrold and stood up for him when I assailed him, but ever since that night he has had no word to say for him.  When Jerrold played wrathful and accused Rollins of mixing in other men’s business, Rollins bounced up to him like a young bull-terrier, and I believe there would have been a row had not Sloat and Hoyt promptly interfered.  Jerrold apologized, and Rollins accepted the apology, but has avoided him ever since,—­won’t speak of him to me, now that I have reason to want to draw him out.  As soon as Armitage gets here he can do what I cannot,—­find out just what and who is suspected and talked about.

“Mr. Jerrold, of course, avoids me.  He has been attending strictly to his duty, and is evidently confounded that I did not press the matter of his going to town as he did the day I forbade it.  Mr. Hoyt’s being too late to see him personally gave me sufficient grounds on which to excuse it; but he seems to understand that something is impending, and is looking nervous and harassed.  He has not renewed his request for leave of absence to run down to Sablon.  I told him curtly it was out of the question.”

The colonel took a few strides up and down the room.  It had come, then.  The good name of those he loved was already besmirched by garrison gossip, and he knew that nothing but heroic measures could ever silence scandal.  Impulse and the innate sense of “fight” urged him to go at once to the scene, leaving his wife and her fair daughter here under his sister’s roof; but Armitage and common sense said no.  He had placed his burden on those broad gray shoulders, and, though ill content to wait, he felt that he was bound.  Stowing away the letters, too nervous to sleep, too worried to talk, he stole from the cottage, and, with hands clasped behind his back, with low-bowed head he strolled forth into the broad vista of moonlit road.

There were bright lights still burning at the hotel, and gay voices came floating through the summer air.  The piano, too, was thrumming a waltz in the parlor, and two or three couples were throwing embracing, slowly-twirling shadows on the windows.  Over in the bar-and billiard-rooms the click of the balls and the refreshing rattle of cracked ice told suggestively of the occupation of the inmates.  Keeping on beyond these distracting sounds, he slowly climbed a long, gradual ascent to the “bench,” or plateau above the wooded point on which were grouped the glistening white buildings of the pretty summer resort, and, having reached the crest, turned silently to gaze at the beauty of the scene,—­at the broad, flawless bosom of a summer lake all sheen and silver from the unclouded moon.  Far to the