sweep aside the web that was unquestionably weaving about that
brave-faced, clear-eyed, soldierly young subaltern? Despite Bayard's
detractions; despite Mrs. Miller's whispered confession that there was
a thief in their midst; despite the fact that his wallet was stolen
from the overcoat-pocket when no one, to his knowledge, but McLean
himself had been there; despite the discovery on the floor--in front of
his bureau--of a handkerchief embroidered with McLean's initials;
despite the fact that it was known that he had been placed heavily in
debt by the stoppage of his pay,--Mr. Roswell Holmes could not find it
in his heart to believe that the young soldier could be guilty of
theft. He would not believe it of him, even as a rival.

Then there was another thing. Who was the silken-skirted woman he met
in the darkness but an hour or so before,--the woman whom he had
attempted to accost, but who slipped past him like a will-o'-the-wisp--in
silence? How was it that the door to Hatton's hall was closed and
locked, when Hatton told him it was always open? Why was it that the
light in that lower hall was extinguished, and by whom was it done?
Had he not gone thither almost immediately after recovering from the
surprise of his encounter on the veranda, and found the hospital
attendant grumblingly relighting it? The man had heard some queer,
swishing sound, he explained, as he sat by Mr. Blunt's bedside, and
"something that sounded like drawers being opened in the room below."
He stepped out in the hall, he said, just in time to hear the lock of
the front door hastily turned, and somebody go stealthily and quickly
out on the veranda, "swishing" all the way. The ladies had been over
along the upper gallery two or three times, to bring cool drinks to
Mr. Blunt's door and inquire how he was getting on,--Mrs. Post and the
young lady, Miss Forrest, he meant,--but they wouldn't want anything
in Mr. McLean's rooms down-stairs. The man looked curiously up at Mr.
Holmes as he told his tale. Holmes was puzzled too, but bade him keep
quiet. Some one of the servants, perhaps, who wanted a match, he
suggested; but the little soldier shook his head. Servants didn't wear
dresses that "swished" like that.

The crowd was beginning to thin considerably, as Holmes could tell by
the sound of receding voices. He decided that it was about time for him
to move and get his own mail, when he became aware of something dark
and shapeless crouching along c