be
one of my greatest pleasures to do so."

Sir Robert Wilson was greatly surprised when he heard from Frank of his
meeting with his brother, and of the adventures through which he had
passed.

"I do not blame him in any way," he said. "Had he been a king's soldier
or sailor the matter would have been altogether different. To have
entered a foreign army then would have been a breach of his oaths. But
as a private individual he was free to take service abroad, as tens of
thousands of English, Scotch, and Irish have done before him. It would,
of course, have been much better had he entered the army of a power
friendly to England, but the document that he received on enlisting goes
far to absolve him from any responsibility in the matter. At any rate,
he was not a deserter, and seeing that he could not go back to England
even if he escaped, that he was practically friendless in the world, and
that, had he not acted as he did he might have died at Verdun, I do not
think that even a severe moralist would be able to find any fault with
his decision. So he was one of Ney's heroes! Well, Frank, when this war
is over, and the bitterness between the two nations has passed away, he
will have good cause to feel proud of having been one of that
unconquerable band. No troops have ever gained greater glory by victory
than they have by retreat; besides to have won his stripes in such
company, and to have received the Legion of Honour from Ney, is as high
an honour as any soldier could wish for. At the same time, I think that
he and his friends have done wisely in keeping silence as to the part he
played--it might have led to all sorts of trouble. Had it been known, he
might have been claimed as a prisoner of war; and even if this had not
been done, he might have been embroiled in quarrels with hot-headed
young Russians; and it is scarcely probable, Frank, that he is such a
dead shot with the pistol as you are."

The next morning Julian heard from Frank full details of the manner in
which the truth had been arrived at of the circumstances of Mr.
Faulkner's murder.

"By Jove! Frank," he exclaimed, when his brother brought the story to a
conclusion; "you ought to have been a Bow Street runner. I can't think
how it all occurred to you. Thinking it over, as I have done hundreds of
times, it never once occurred to me that the footprints in the snow
might prove that I had set off in pursuit of Markham, and that they
would have shown that