"Nothing more," said the captain, without looking up. The soldier saluted, but did not go. Presently his master's attention was awakened by the uneasy creaking of his boots. "Well, what do you want?" "Me mother is very ill, sir." "I'm not a doctor, Malloy." "I wasn't thinkin' of insultin' you, sir." Hemming sighed, and laid down his pen. "I have found you a satisfactory servant," he said, "also a frightful liar." "I must confess to you, sir," replied the man, "that I was lyin' last month about me father,--he's been dead as St. Pathrick this seven year,--but to-night I'm tellin' you the truth, sir, so help me--" "Never mind that," interrupted Hemming. Malloy was silent. "So your mother is very ill?" continued the captain. "Yes, sir,--locomotive attacks, sir." "And poor, I take it?" "Yes, sir,--four bob a week." Hemming felt in his pockets and drew out a sovereign. "Sorry it's so little," he said, "but if you give me her address to-morrow I'll call and see her." "God bless you, sir," said the man. He took the money, and hesitated beside the table. Hemming glanced at him inquiringly. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, it beats me how you knows when I'm lyin' and when I'm tellin' the truth," exclaimed the orderly. "I'm learning things by experience. Good night, Malloy." Alone again, Hemming made short work of his proofs. After sealing them into a yellow envelope, and inscribing thereon the address of a big New York weekly (whose editor had proved partial to his sketches and stories of "doings" in the Imperial Army), he produced some of the regimental stationery and began a letter to Miss Travers. It was no easy undertaking--the writing of this particular letter. After struggling for some minutes with the first sentence, he leaned back in his chair and fell into retrospection. His age was now twenty-nine years. He had done with Sandhurst at twenty-one, and had been in the army ever since; had seen more than his share of foreign service, and two seasons of border-scrapping in Northern India. He had gone ahead in his chosen profession, despite a weakness for reading poetry in bed and writing articles descriptive of people and things he knew. During his father's lifetime his allowance (though he was but a third son) was ample, and even enabled him to play polo, and shortly after his father's death an almost unknown great-aunt had left him a modest little sum--not much of a fortune, but a very comfortable possession. Two years previous to his present troubles he had fallen in love. So had the girl. A year ago he had proposed and been accepted. He had, for her sake, fathered a reckless, impecunious subaltern, by name Penthouse, lending him money and endorsing his notes, and now he was stripped bare to his pay. If he had never met the girl, things would not look so bad, for certain papers and magazines had begun to buy his stories. By sitting up to it and working hard, he felt that he could make more as a writer than