"The evidences of her own forgery, her own guilt," said Armstrong gravely. "One was the order she wrote in excellent imitation of her husband's hand and signature, authorizing the changing of guard arrangements on the wharf the evening Stewart sailed. The other was a note in pencil, also purporting to come from him, directing old Keeny--you remember the General's Irish orderly--to search for a packet of letters that had come by mail, and must be in the general's tent, either about his desk or overcoat, and to bring them at once to room number so and so at the Palace. Of course neither the General nor Garrison was there when he arrived with them; but she was, and with all her fascinations. She got the Irishman half drunk and told him a piteous story and made him swear he'd never tell the General or anybody. If questioned he could plead he had gone out, and--"got a little full with the boys." She gave him money--a big bit, too; and he got more than full. "The very vehemence of his denials made me suspect him," said Armstrong; "but he was firm when examined." The General never required him to remain at the tent at night. He could go to town any evening he wished; and to cover his appearing at the Palace where the General long had a room, and where he was well known, he could say he was only in to have a word with one of the housemaids, and to give Mrs. Garrison a handkerchief one of the ladies must have dropped. But one thing she failed in--getting the letter back. Keeny had left it at camp in the pocket of his old blouse, and when he sobered up and all the questions were asked he hung onto it in case the truth came out, in order that he might save himself from punishment. But it broke him--he got to drinking oftener, and the General had to send him to his regiment; and then when we heard of Canker's charge against you I saw the way to wring the truth out of him. He worshiped your father, as did every Irish dragoon that ever rode under him, and I told him you were to be brought to trial for the crime. Then he broke down and gave the truth--and her penciled order--to me." In the silence that followed the soldier of forty and the lad of only twenty-one sat looking gravely into each other's face. It was Armstrong who spoke again: "Gray, it was manly in you to tell me your story and your trouble. I could help you here; but--who can help you when you have to tell it--next time?" "Next time?--father, do you mean?" queried Gray, a puzzled look in his blue eyes. "I hadn't thought, do you know, to worry dear old dad--unless he asked." Armstrong's grave face grew dark: "You ought to know what I mean, Gray. This story may come up when least you think for, and--would you have it told Miss Lawrence before she hears it from you?" "Miss Lawrence," answered Billy, flushing, "isn't in the least interested."