n to flash upon them, revealing the figure of a man in
uniform.

"Pardon my interruption," he explained, bowing, "but you were gone so
long, Mrs. Dupont, I feared some accident."

She laughed lightly.

"You are very excusable. No doubt I have been here longer than I
supposed."

The officer's eyes surveyed the soldier standing erect, his hand lifted
in salute. The situation puzzled him.

"Sergeant Hamlin, how are you here? On leave?"

"Yes, sir."

"Of course this is rather unusual, Captain Barrett," said the lady
hastily, tapping the astonished officer lightly with her fan, "but I
was once quite well acquainted with Sergeant Hamlin when he was a major
of the Fourth Texas Infantry during the late war. He and my husband
were intimates. Naturally I was delighted to meet with him again."

The Captain stared at the man's rigid figure.

"Good Lord, I never knew that, Hamlin," he exclaimed. "Glad to know
it, my man. You see," he explained lamely, "we get all kinds of
fellows in the ranks, and are not interested in their past history. I
've had Hamlin under my command for two years now, and hanged if I knew
anything about him, except that he was a good soldier. Were you ready
to go, Mrs. Dupont?"

"Oh, yes; we have exhausted all our reminiscences. Good-bye, Sergeant;
so glad to have met you again."

She extended her ungloved hand, a single diamond glittering in the
light. He accepted it silently, aware of the slight pressure of her
fingers. Then the Captain assisted her through the window, and the
falling curtain veiled them from view.

CHAPTER XVIII

ANOTHER MESSAGE

Hamlin sank back on the bench and leaned his head on his hand. Had
anything been accomplished by this interview? One thing, at least--he
had thoroughly demonstrated that the charm once exercised over his
imagination by this beautiful woman had completely vanished. He saw
her now as she was--heartless, selfish, using her spell of beauty for
her own sordid ends. If there had been left a shred of romance in his
memory of her, it was now completely shattered. Her coolness, her
adroit changing of moods, convinced him she was playing a game. What
game? Nothing in her words had revealed its nature, yet the man
instinctively felt that it must involve Molly McDonald. Laboriously he
reviewed, word by word, each sentence exchanged, striving to find some
clue. He had pricked her in the Gaskins affair, there was no doubt of
that; s