Hemming's smile became strangely fixed, as he surveyed his friend across the little table. Could this be the same old Anderson, he mused; and, if so, why so confoundedly chesty? Could it be that a staff appointment had come his way? He gave up the riddle, and related some of his adventures in Pernamba, and told of the end of Penthouse's misguided career. "I saw something about the revolution and your heroism in the New York papers," said Anderson, "but there was no mention of Penthouse." "He called himself Cuddlehead at that time,--and really it was hardly worth while enlightening the press on that point," replied Hemming. "He was related to Mrs. Travers," he added. The major moved uneasily in his chair. "By the way," continued Hemming, with a poor attempt at a casual air, "how are Mrs. Travers and Molly?" "I believe they are very well," replied his friend. "See here, Dick," cried the man of adventures, with a vast change of manner, "I must show my hand. Why should I try to bluff you, anyway? Tell me, old chap, do you think I have half a chance." The colour faded from the major's ruddy cheeks, and he looked forlorn and pathetic, despite his swagger and size. "Half a chance," he repeated, vaguely,--"half a chance at what?" "You used to know well enough," cried the other. "Damn it, are my affairs so soon forgotten?" "I thought you had forgotten them yourself. It is a long time since you went away, you know," replied Anderson, scarcely above a whisper. Drops of sweat glistened on his face. "A long time,--yes, I know," murmured Hemming. Presently he said: "Dick, you have not answered my question." Anderson cleared his throat, fingered his moustache, and glanced about uneasily. But he made no reply. "You don't think I have any chance? You think she does not care for me?" questioned Hemming, desperately. He reached over and gripped his friend's wrist with painful vim. "Tell me the truth, Dick, and never mind my feelings," he cried. Anderson withdrew his arm with a jerk. "Can't you see? Are you such a damn fool!" he muttered. "You come along, after you have had your fun, and expect me to produce the joyous bride,--the blushing first-love." "What the devil is the matter with you?" asked Hemming, aghast. "So you imagine the world stands still for you,--Mr. Commander-in-Chief? You had better hurry back to your nigger troops, or they'll be having another revolution." Hemming looked and listened, and could believe neither his eyes nor his ears. Was this the same man who, once upon a time, had been his jolly, kindly friend? The once honest face now looked violent and mean. The once honest voice rang like a jealous hag's. Hemming stared, and stared, in pained astonishment. Then, by some flutter of his companion's eyelids, understanding came to him. "Dick," he said, "Dick, I am sorry."