Into this stifling atmosphere of greed and corruption Clarence Brant stepped from the shadow of the War Department.  For the last three weeks he had haunted its ante-rooms and audience-chambers, in the vain hope of righting himself before his superiors, who were content, without formulating charges against him, to keep him in this disgrace of inaction and the anxiety of suspense.  Unable to ascertain the details of the accusation, and conscious of his own secret, he was debarred the last resort of demanding a court-martial, which he knew could only exonerate him by the exposure of the guilt of his wife, whom he still hoped had safely escaped.  His division commander, in active operations in the field, had no time to help him at Washington.  Elbowed aside by greedy contractors, forestalled by selfish politicians, and disdaining the ordinary method of influence, he had no friend to turn to.  In his few years of campaigning he had lost his instinct of diplomacy, without acquiring a soldier’s bluntness.

The nearly level rays of the sun forced him at last to turn aside into one of the openings of a large building—­a famous caravansary of that hotel-haunted capital, and he presently found himself in the luxurious bar-room, fragrant with mint, and cool with ice-slabs piled symmetrically on its marble counters.  A few groups of men were seeking coolness at small tables with glasses before them and palm-leaf fans in their hands, but a larger and noisier assemblage was collected before the bar, where a man, collarless and in his shirt-sleeves, with his back to the counter, was pretentiously addressing them.  Brant, who had moodily dropped into a chair in the corner, after ordering a cooling drink as an excuse for his temporary refuge from the stifling street, half-regretted his enforced participation in their conviviality.  But a sudden lowering of the speaker’s voice into a note of gloomy significance seemed familiar to him.  He glanced at him quickly, from the shadow of his corner.  He was not mistaken—­it was Jim Hooker!

For the first time in his life, Brant wished to evade him.  In the days of his own prosperity his heart had always gone out towards this old companion of his boyhood; in his present humiliation his presence jarred upon him.  He would have slipped away, but to do so he would have had to pass before the counter again, and Hooker, with the self-consciousness of a story-teller, had an eye on his audience.  Brant, with a palm-leaf fan before his face, was obliged to listen.

“Yes, gentlemen,” said Hooker, examining his glass dramatically, “when a man’s been cooped up in a Rebel prison, with a death line before him that he’s obliged to cross every time he wants a square drink, it seems sort of like a dream of his boyhood to be standin’ here comf’ble before his liquor, alongside o’ white men once more.  And when he knows he’s bin put to all that trouble jest to save the reputation of another man, and the secrets of a few high and mighty ones,