It was quarter to four when young Mellen was bidden to tell whether he knew, and what he knew of, the deceased, and all men hushed their very breath as the lad was conducted to the blanket-shrouded form under the overhanging gallery in the open _patio_. The hospital steward slowly turned down the coverlet, and Mellen, well-nigh as pallid as the corpse, was bidden to look. Look he did, long and earnestly. The little weights that some one had placed on the eyelids were lifted; the soft hair had been neatly brushed; the lips were gently closed; the delicate, clear-cut features wore an expression of infinite peace and rest; and Mellen slowly turned and, facing the official group at the neighboring table, nodded. "You think you recognize the deceased?" came the question. "If so, what was his name?" "I think so, yes, sir. It's Foster--at least that's what I heard it was." "Had you ever known him?--to speak to?" "He was in the same detachment on the train. Don't know as I ever spoke to him, sir," was the answer. "But you think you know him by sight? Where did you first notice him?" "Think it was Ogden, sir. I didn't pay much attention before that. A man called Murray knew him and got some money from him. That's how I came to notice him. The rest of us hadn't any to speak of." "Ever see him again to speak to or notice particularly after you left Ogden? Did he sit near you?" was the somewhat caustic query. "No, sir, only just that once." "But you are sure this is the man you saw at Ogden?" Mellen turned uneasily, unhappily, and looked again into the still and placid face. That meeting was on a glaring day in June. This was a clouded afternoon in late October and nearly five months had slipped away. Yet he had heard the solemn story of murder and had never, up to now, imagined there could be a doubt. In mute patience the sleeping face seemed appealing to him to speak for it, to own it, to stand between it and the possibility of its being buried friendless, unrecognized. "It's--it's him or his twin brother, sir," said Mellen. "One question more. Had you heard before you came here who was killed?" "Yes, sir. They said it was Foster." And now, with pencils swiftly plying, several young civilians were edging to the door. James Farnham was called, and a sturdy young man, with keen, weather-beaten face, stepped into the little open space before the table. Three fingers were gone from the hand he instinctively held up, as though expecting to be sworn. His testimony was decidedly a disappointment. Farnham said that he was brakeman of that train and would know some of that squad of recruits anywhere, but this one,--well, he remembered talking to one man at Ogden, a tall, fine-looking young feller something very like this one. This might have been him or it might not. He couldn't even be sure that this was one of the party. He really didn't know. But there was a chap called Murray that he'd remember easy enough anywhere.