"Sorry to detain you, sir, and beg pardon for letting him run up on us in that way. We've got extra orders to-night. There's a queer set, mostly natives, in that second house yonder" (and he pointed to a substantial two-story building about thirty paces from the corner). "They got in there while the fire excitement was on. Twice I've seen them peeking out from that door. That's why I dare not leave here and chase after you--after the lieutenant. Now, may I have the name again, sir." And at last, without interruption, Stuyvesant spelled and pronounced the revered old Dutch patronymic. At last he was able to go unhindered, and now, overcome by anxiety, eagerness, and dread, he hardly knew what, he broke into fleet-footed, rapid run, much to the surprise of the staid patrol which he overtook trudging along on the opposite side of the street, two blocks away, and never halted until again brought up standing by a sentry at the San Luis. Ten minutes later, while still listening to Brent's oft-repeated tale of the theft, and still quivering a little from excitement, Stuyvesant heard another sound, the rapid, rhythmic beat of dancing footsteps. "Hullo!" interrupted one of the lingering officers. "Another fire company coming? It's about time more began to arrive, isn't it?" "It's a patrol--and on the jump, too! What's up, I wonder?" answered Brent, spinning about to face towards the Calle Real. There was an officer with this patrol,--an officer who in his eagerness could barely abide the sentry's challenge. "Officer of the guard--with patrol," he cried, adding instantly, as he darted into view. "Sentry, which--which way did that officer go? Tall young officer--in white uniform!" In surprise, the sentry nodded towards the speechless group standing in front of Brent's, and to them came the boy lieutenant, panting and in manifest excitement. "I beg pardon, colonel," he began, "our sentry, Number 6, was found a minute ago--shot dead--down on the Padre Faura. My men said they saw an officer running from the spot, running this way, and this gentleman--Mr. Stuyvesant, isn't it?" There was an awed silence, an awkward pause. "I certainly was there not long ago," spoke Stuyvesant, presently. "And Number 6, your sentry, was then all right. I certainly came running----" "That's all I can hear," was the sharp interruption. "My orders are to arrest you. You're my prisoner, Mr. Stuyvesant," gasped the lad. "Preposterous!" said Dr. Frank a few minutes later when told by an awe-stricken group what had occurred. "Preposterous say I!" echoed Brent. "And yet, see here----Oh, of course, you know Major MacNeil, field officer of the day," he added, indicating a tall, thin-faced, gray-mustached officer of regulars who had but just arrived, and who now held forth a gleaming revolver with the words, "I picked this up myself--not ten yards from where he lay." It was Marion's. CHAPTER XVI.