orderly, who were about to enter
the side door from the arbor.

Masterson halted to listen whence the crash came, but the orderly's
ears were more accurate and he dashed towards the corner.

"Captain," he called in a loud whisper, as he saw the struggling
figures, and at the call and the sound of quick steps Pierson leaped
to his feet and ran for the shrubbery.

"Halt!" called Masterson, and fired one shot from his revolver. The
fugitive leaped to one side as the order rang out and the bullet went
whistling past. He had cleared the open space and was in the
shrubbery. The orderly dashed after him as Masterson caught Delaven,
who was scrambling to his feet, feeling his throat and trying to take
a full breath.

"Who are you?" demanded Masterson, shaking him a trifle to hasten the
smothered speech. "Doctor Delaven! You! Who was that man?"

"It's little I can tell you," gasped the other, "except that he's some
murderous rival who wanted to make an angel of me. Man, but he has a
grip!"

Margeret suddenly appeared on the veranda with a lamp held high above
her head, as she peered downward in the darkness, and by its light
Masterson scanned the appearance of Delaven with a doubtful eye.

"Why did the man assault you?" he demanded, and Delaven showed the
long envelope.

"He was trying to rob me of a letter let fall from the balcony above,
bad luck to him!"

At that moment the orderly came running back to say that the man had
got away; a horse had been tied over in the pines, they could hear the
beat of its hoofs now on the big road.

"Get a horse and follow him," ordered Masterson briefly, as
McVeigh and Clarkson came down the stairs and past Margeret. "Arrest
him, shoot him, fetch him back some way!" Then he turned again to
the would-be cavalier of romance, who was surveying the guitar
disconsolately.

"Doctor Delaven, what are you doing in that uniform?"

"I was about to give a concert," returned that individual, who made a
grotesque figure in the borrowed suit, a world too large for him.

McVeigh laughed as he heard the reply and surveyed the speaker.
Masterson's persistent search for spies had evidently spoiled
Delaven's serenade.

Mrs. McVeigh opened a window and asked what the trouble was, and
Masterson assured her it was only an accident--his revolver had gone
off, but no one was hurt, on which assurance she said good night and
closed the window, while the group stood looking at each other
questionin