er of a bit of white paper.
He drew it forth, and gazed at it unthinkingly. It was an envelope,
robbed of its contents, evidently not sent through the mails as it
had not been stamped, but across its face was plainly written, "Miss
Christie Maclaire." He stared at it, his lips firm set, his gray eyes
darkening. If he possessed any doubts before as to her identity, they
were all thoroughly dissipated now.

* * * * *

As he lay there, with head pillowed on the saddle, his body aching from
fatigue yet totally unable to sleep, staring open-eyed into the blue
of the sky, the girl they had left behind awoke from uneasy slumber,
aroused by the entrance of Mrs. Murphy. For an instant she failed to
comprehend her position, but the strong brogue of the energetic landlady
broke in sharply:

"A bit av a cup av coffee fer ye, honey," she explained, crossing to the
bed. "Shure an' there's nuthin' loike it when ye first wake up. Howly
Mither, but it's toird 'nough ye do be lookin' yet."

"I haven't slept very well," the girl confessed, bringing her hand
out from beneath the coverlet, the locket still tightly clasped in her
fingers. "See, I found this on the floor last night after you had gone
down stairs."

"Ye did!" setting the coffee on a convenient chair, and reaching out for
the trinket. "Let's have a look at it once. Angels av Hiven, if it isn't
the same the ol' Gineral was showin' me in the parly."

The other sat up suddenly, her white shoulders and rounded throat
gleaming.

"The old General, you said? What General? When was he here?"

"Shure now, be aisy, honey, an' Oi 'll tell ye all there is to it. It's
not his name Oi know; maybe Oi niver heard till av it, but 'twas the
'Gineral' they called him, all right. He was here maybe three days
outfittin'--a noice spoken ol' gintlemin, wid a gray beard, an' onc't he
showed me the locket--be the powers, if it do be his, there's an openin'
to it, an' a picter inside."

The girl touched the spring, revealing the face within, but her eyes
were blinded with tears. The landlady looked at her in alarm.

"What is it, honey? What is it? Did you know him?"

The slender form swayed forward, shaken with sobs.

"He was my father, and--and this is my mother's picture which he always
carried."

"Then what is your name?"

"Hope Waite."

Kate Murphy looked, at the face half hidden in the bed-clothes. That was
not the name which Keith had given her, b