es and boxes a defence
for the position by the river. When this was done the wounded were all
carried down to the new fort. After the work was over Rupert strolled up
through the village to have a chat with Easton. As he was sitting there
an orderly came up.

"Mr. Clinton, the surgeon has sent me up with two letters that were
found inside the jacket of the wounded sergeant who was brought in this
afternoon. One is directed to you and the other to Captain Percy
Clinton."

"That is very curious," Rupert said, taking the letters and turning them
over in his hand. "How is the man going on, orderly?"

"He is insensible still, sir. I believe the doctors say that it is
fever, and that his wound is not serious. One of the men of his regiment
who is in the hospital says he got it at Abu Klea, and that it was
attended to there."

"Thank you, orderly, that will do. What in the world can the man be
writing to me about, and to my father, which is still more curious?"

"I should say the best way of finding out, Clinton, will be to open the
letter."

"Well, I suppose it will be," Rupert replied. "Still, it is always
interesting to guess at a mystery before you find the key."

"Well, guess away," Easton said, stretching himself out on his back. "I
never was a good hand at riddles."

It was some little time before Rupert, finding himself unable to find
any solution whatever to the mystery, opened the letter. As he did so he
stirred the fire by which they were sitting into a fresh blaze. He read
a few lines and uttered an exclamation of such intense surprise that
Easton sat up with a start.

"What is it, Clinton?"

"It is the most extraordinary thing I ever came across, Easton. You know
the story about Edgar and myself. Well, this wounded sergeant is either
his father or mine."

"Impossible!" Easton exclaimed; "he did not look much above thirty;
besides, no soldier of twenty-one years' service--and he must have had
fully that--would be out here."

Rupert made no reply; he was running his eyes rapidly through the
letter.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed; "Edgar is out here; he is a trumpeter in
the Heavies."

"That is news, Rupert. I congratulate you heartily, old fellow. You are
sure that there is no mistake?"

"No; there cannot be any mistake about that," Rupert said, thrusting the
letter into his tunic. "Come along, Easton, let us be off. He goes by
the name of Ned Smith."

"Wait a moment, old man," Easton said, lay