had to close them. I stood before two men. One sat facing me at a
black table of carved oak--a man of middle age, in the uniform of a
British general. Stout and handsome, with brown eyes, dark hair
and mustache now half white, and nose aquiline by the least turn,
he impressed me as have few men that ever crossed my path. A young
man sat lounging easily in a big chair beside him, his legs
crossed, his delicate fingers teasing a thin mustache. I noticed
that his hands were slim and hairy. He glanced up at me as soon as
I could bear the light. Then he sat looking idly at the carpet,

The silence of the room was broken only by the scratch of a quill
in the hand of the general. I glanced about me. On the wall was a
large painting that held my eye: there was something familiar in
the face. I saw presently it was that of the officer I had fought
in the woods, the one who fell before me. I turned my head; the
young man was looking up at me. A smile had parted his lips. They
were the lips of a rake, it seemed to me. A fine set of teeth
showed between them.

"Do you know him?" he asked coolly.

"I have not the honor," was my reply.

"What is your name?" the general demanded in the deep tone I had
heard before.

"Pardon me," said the young man, quietly, as if he were now weary
of the matter, "I do not think it necessary."

There was a bit of silence. The general looked thoughtfully at the