He reached it with neither hope nor fear—­so benumbed had become his spirit under this last trial, and what seemed to be now the mockery of this last sacrifice to his wife.  Though it was no longer a question of her life and safety, he knew that he could still preserve her memory from stain by keeping her secret, even though its divulgings might clear his own.  For that reason, he had even hesitated to inform Susy of her death, in the fear that, in her thoughtless irresponsibility and impulsiveness, she might be tempted to use it in his favor.  He had made his late appointment a plea for her withholding any present efforts to assist him.  He even avoided the Boompointers’ house, in what he believed was partly a duty to the memory of his wife.  But he saw no inconsistency in occasionally extending his lonely walks to the vicinity of a foreign Legation, or in being lifted with a certain expectation at the sight of its liveries on the Avenue.  There was a craving for sympathy in his heart, which Miss Faulkner’s letter had awakened.

Meantime, he had reported himself for duty at the War Department—­with little hope, however, in that formality.  But he was surprised the next day when the chief of the bureau informed him that his claim was before the President.

“I was not aware that I had presented any claim,” he said, a little haughtily.

The bureau chief looked up with some surprise.  This quiet, patient, reserved man had puzzled him once or twice before.

“Perhaps I should say ‘case,’ General,” he said, drily.  “But the personal interest of the highest executive in the land strikes me as being desirable in anything.”

“I only mean that I have obeyed the orders of the department in reporting myself here, as I have done,” said Brant, with less feeling, but none the less firmness; “and I should imagine it was not the duty of a soldier to question them.  Which I fancy a ‘claim’ or a ‘case’ would imply.”

He had no idea of taking this attitude before, but the disappointments of the past month, added to this first official notice of his disgrace, had brought forward that dogged, reckless, yet half-scornful obstinacy that was part of his nature.

The official smiled.

“I suppose, then, you are waiting to hear from the President,” he said drily.

“I am awaiting orders from the department,” returned Brant quietly, “but whether they originate in the President as commander-in-chief, or not—­it is not for me to inquire.”

Even when he reached his hotel this half-savage indifference which had taken the place of his former incertitude had not changed.  It seemed to him that he had reached the crisis of his life where he was no longer a free agent, and could wait, superior alike to effort or expectation.  And it was with a merely dispassionate curiosity that he found a note the next morning from the President’s private secretary, informing him that the President would see him early that day.