Well, it was a love-letter; a real, genuine love-letter. Chick had never seen one before. He had only heard of them and wondered about them. And, being a love-letter, it was, of course, a thousand times more important that he should keep secret the contents, than though it had been a mere business letter. But who was Rachael to whom the letter had been written? and, more especially, who was Alfred, who had written it? He was a corporal in Company E. That fact, of course, went a long way toward his identification, but it was not sufficient to make the identification complete. There were five corporals in Company E, and if any one of them bore the name of Alfred, Chick did not know it. It had become very plain to him, however, that he must find the person who had written this letter, and deliver it up to him. That would be simply a gentleman’s duty. In the meantime the missive would be secreted in an inner pocket of his waistcoat where no human eye would have an opportunity to gaze on it. Before he turned out his light and got into bed Chick formulated his plan of action. The next day he called at the office of Captain Murray. “Do you happen to have,” he asked him, “any list of the co’porals in Company E?” “Not here, Chick,” was the reply. “My roster is at the armory. I can tell who they are, though.” “First names an’ all?” “Hardly that. I only know them by their last names. Why?” “Oh, I just kind o’ thought I’d like to know; that’s all. I--I might want to ask one of ’em for a job.” “I see. Well, you go to Orderly Sergeant Barriscale. He’ll have a list and he’ll give you their full names.” “No, I wouldn’t ask him. I don’t want to be under no obligation to him. I’ll find out some way.” And Chick did find out. It was a slow and laborious process. But by consulting the city directory, by asking personal friends of the corporals, by many a roundabout way, he was in possession, before nightfall, of the desired information. And then he ran up against another difficulty. There were two Alfreds in the list; both of them young, unmarried fellows, liable to have sweethearts. He decided to take the bull by the horns and interview each of them in turn. He found Alfred Griffin at his place of employment, a big wholesale house in the lower end of the city. He was shipping clerk there. His coat was off, his sleeves were rolled up, and he was busy as a bee checking up half a roomful of barrels, boxes and bales ready to be sent out to customers. As Chick made his way across the room between piles of merchandise, Griffin saw him coming and greeted him cheerily. “Hello, Chick!” he said. “What’s the best word to-day?” “The word o’ hope,” replied Chick. “You feelin’ perty good to-day, yourself?” “Fine!” “Ain’t disappointed about nothin’?” “Not that I know of. Why?” Chick didn’t answer the question. He looked around cautiously to make sure that no one else was within hearing, then he asked suddenly: