all that went before, for that? I'm the
youngest major in the army, I served in three campaigns, I'm a
medal-of-honor man, I've got a career ahead of me, and--and I'm going
to be married. If you give me a chance-"

Standish struck the table with his fist.

"I will give you a chance," he cried. "If you'll give your word to
this man and to me, that, so help you God, you'll never drink
again--I'll let you go."

If what Standish proposed had been something base, Aintree could not
have accepted it with more contempt.

"I'll see you in hell first," he said.

As though the interview was at an end, Standish dropped into his chair
and leaning forward, from the table picked up a cigar. As he lit it,
he motioned Meehan toward his prisoner, but before the policeman could
advance the sound of footsteps halted him.

Bullard, his eyes filled with concern, leaped up the steps, and ran to
the desk.

"Lieutenant!" he stammered, "that man--the nigger that officer
shot--he's dead!"

Aintree gave a gasp that was partly a groan, partly a cry of protest,
and Bullard, as though for the first time aware of his presence, sprang
back to the open door and placed himself between it and Aintree.

"It's murder!" he said.

None of the three men spoke; and when Meehan crossed to where Aintree
stood, staring fearfully at nothing, he had only to touch his sleeve,
and Aintree, still staring, fell into step beside him.

From the yard outside Standish heard the iron door of the cell swing
shut, heard the key grate in the lock, and the footsteps of Meehan
returning.

Meehan laid the key upon the desk, and with Bullard stood at attention,
waiting.

"Give him time," whispered Standish. "Let it sink in!"

At the end of half an hour Standish heard Aintree calling, and, with
Meehan carrying a lantern, stepped into the yard and stopped at the
cell door.

Aintree was quite sober. His face was set and white, his voice was
dull with suffering. He stood erect, clasping the bars in his hands.

"Standish," he said, "you gave me a chance a while ago, and I refused
it. I was rough about it. I'm sorry. It made me hot because I
thought you were forcing my hand, blackmailing me into doing something
I ought to do as a free agent. Now, I am a free agent. You couldn't
give me a chance now, you couldn't let me go now, not if I swore on a
thousand Bibles. I don't know what they'll give me--Leavenworth for
life, or hanging, or just dismissal. But,