"Of course you can. I'll go, too. We'll all go. I know the ladies want to. Run up and get your wraps, though it isn't raining now." And the ladies, one and all, scurried away up the stairs. A moment later Mr. Holmes was slipping into his beaver overcoat that had been hanging in the hall. Then he began fumbling in the pockets, first one and then another. He tried the outside, then threw it open and thrust his hand into those within the broad lapels, a look of bewilderment coming over his face. "What's the matter?" asked the doctor. "Want another cigar? Here, man! There are plenty in the dining-room; let me get you one." "No, no! It isn't that! I've smoked enough. Wait a moment." And again he thrust his hands deep in the pockets. "Hold on till I run up to my room," he continued, and darted lightly up the stairs. The ladies were all fluttering down again and were grouped in the lower hall as he came back, laughing, but with an odd, white look about his face. "Holmes! Something's the matter. What have you lost? What's been taken?" "Nothing--nothing of any consequence. Come on. Let us hurry after the major, or we'll miss the fun. Mrs. Miller, permit me," and he offered his arm to the major's wife, who stood nearest the door. "No, but I insist on knowing what is missing, Holmes. It is my right to know," called the doctor, as he struggled into his army overcoat. "Nothing but a cigar-case and an old pocket-book. I've mislaid them somewhere and there's no time to look. Come on." "Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Miller in a low tone, "I have abundant reason for asking and--no! Tell me. Where was that pocket-book and how much money was there in it?" "In my overcoat-pocket, at sunset. Probably one hundred dollars or so. I never carry much in that way. You will not speak of it, Mrs. Miller?" "To my husband I must, and this very night. You do not dream what trouble we are in, with a thief in our very midst." "Some of the servants, I suppose," he said, carelessly. But to his surprise she only bowed her head and was silent a moment, then muttered rather than spoke the words,-- "God knows. I only hope so!" V. "What a trump that young fellow McLean seems to be, doctor," said Mr. Holmes, reflectively, late that night as the two men were smoking a final cigar together. "Oh, he's not a bad lot by any means," was the reply. "Good deal of a boy, you know. Has no experience of life. Doesn't know anything, in fact, except what professional knowledge he picked up at the Point. You can't expect anything else of an infantry subaltern whose army life has been spent out in this God-forsaken country." "Why do you always run down this country, doctor? It's a glorious country, a magnificent country. I declare I hate the clatter and racket and rush of Chicago more and more every time I go back to it."