office, a private in Company "K." What made it worse was the allegation that several others, noncommissioned officers and "special duty men," were mixed up in the matter, and Canker had rasped the whole commissioned force present for duty, in his lecture upon the subject, and had almost intimated that officers were conniving at the concealment of the guilt of their sergeants rather than have it leak out that the felony was committed in a company of their commanding. He and Gordon had had what was described as a "red-hot" row, all because Gordon flatly declared that while _something_ was queer about the case of the young clerk who "had money to burn," as the men said, he'd bet his bottom dollar he wasn't a thief. Canker said such language was a reflection on himself, as he had personally investigated the case, was convinced Morton's guilt could be established, and had so reported to the brigade commander in recommending trial by general court-martial. Indeed he had made out a case against the lad even before he was arrested and returned to camp. Gordon asked if he had seen the boy and heard his story. Canker reddened and said he hadn't, and he didn't mean to and didn't have to. Gordon said _he_ had--he had talked with the lad fully and freely on his being brought to camp toward nine o'clock, and was greatly impressed with his story--as would any one else be who heard it. Canker reddened still more and said he wouldn't allow officers to interview prisoners without his authority. "I'll prefer charges against the next that does it," said he. And not three hours later, Mr. Billy Gray, sprawling on his camp cot, striving to forget the sorrow of the earlier morning, and to memorize a page of paragraphs of army regulations, was suddenly accosted by an orderly who stood at the front of the tent, scratching at the tent flap--the camp substitute for a ring at the bell. "A note for the lieutenant," said he, darting in and then darting out, possibly fearful of question. It was a queer note: "I am a total stranger to you, but I wore in brighter days the badge of the same society that was yours at the university. Three of the fraternity are in my company--one is on guard and he urged me to write at once to you. They know me to be a Brother Delt, even though I dare not tell my real name. What I have to say is that the charge against me is utterly false, as I can convince you, but could not convince a court. I am confined at the moment of all others in my life when it is most vitally important that I should be free. Grant me ten minutes' interview this afternoon and if I do not prove myself guiltless I will ask no favor--but when I _do_ convince you, do as you would be done by. Yours in [Greek:D S CH], "George Morton."