"Good-morning, gentlemen," I said easily.

So far as Slade was concerned it was evident that all he saw was the
uniform, his revolver instantly covering me, held in a hand steady as
rock; he even grinned amiably across the barrel. But the expression on
Le Gaire's face changed from startled surprise to relief. He was a tall
man, with dark hair and eyes, a black moustache shading his lip, and his
hand fell from the hilt of the sword as he took an uncertain step
toward me.

"Drop that gun-play, Sergeant," he exclaimed sharply. "This man _is_
all right; I know him."

Too astounded myself for speech, I could only stare back into the
captain's face, seeking vainly to recall ever having seen the fellow
before. Not the slightest recollection came to me, but Le Gaire
blundered on, blinded by his discovery.

"Didn't know you had gone into this sort of thing," he exclaimed
cordially, holding out his hand. "Last I heard your regiment was in New
Orleans. Don't remember me, do you?"

I shook my head, so completely puzzled by this unexpected turn of
affairs that speech became dangerous. Perhaps he would give me some clue
to my new identity, which would enable me to carry out the masquerade.

"Your face is familiar," I ventured, "but--"

"Oh, no excuses," he broke in cordially. "I was a guest at your mess one