“Then we crossed there, no, there, and landed on the Arkansas side. We had put Mrs. Ducie and Julian into the skiff, which we rowed ourselves. She had a lot of things with her that she was taking to Victor, bed-linen, blankets, clothes, medicines, wines and such like, so hard to come by in the Confederacy in those times. We landed there, no, _there_.” Again he was pointing wildly from place to place. Now and then he took short, agile runs to and fro, as if he sought a better view in the windy obscurity. “It was very cold and a pitch black night. We almost got under the hull of a Yankee gunboat--she was a vessel that had been captured from the Confederates, armored with iron rails, you know--that kind of iron-clad. As she swung at anchor I wonder the suction didn’t swamp us, but it didn’t. The look-out on deck never challenged nor heard us. We hit it like the bull’s eye, at the Arkansas landing,--Archie knew every twist and quirk in the current like an old song, born at Duciehurst, you know. And after we made it to the farm-house, where Victor was lying at the point of death it seemed, we returned to our command according to orders, our leave being expired, for we had already hid the box in the knapsack at Duciehurst. And that’s all.” He laid his hand on Colonel Kenwynton’s shoulder and gazed wistfully into his face. Day was coming surely, for the elder man’s feebler vision read a strange fact in those eyes, a fact that made him shudder, even when half perceived, a fact against which his credulity revolted. “Hugh, Hugh, why in the name of God have you not produced those papers, restored the gold and jewels?” “Why, why, why,” Treherne’s voice rose to a shriek. “Why, I have _forgotten_ where they were hidden. Forgotten! Forgotten! Forgotten!” Colonel Kenwynton was trembling like a leaf. A chill keener than the cold had set his heart a-quiver. “Forgotten,” he echoed in a vague fright. “Forgotten--impossible!” The contradiction seemed to restore Treherne--not so much that it aroused the instinct of contention as the determination to set himself right in the eyes of his old commander. “Do you know, Colonel, where I have been these forty years?” he demanded, quietly. “I thought, in Paradise, dear old boy. I often asked, but could never hear a word.” Wherever he had been it was evident he had not been happy there. The trembling clasp of Colonel Kenwynton’s arm on his shoulder brought the younger man’s face down on the soft old wrinkled neck. But now there were no tears. “I have been at Glenrose.” The words came from between set teeth, in the merest thread of a voice. “Glenrose?” Colonel Kenwynton was aware that there was a significance in the reply which he had not grasped. “A beautiful little town, I am told, not far from Caxton, and growing quite into commercial importance,” he said, glibly, his instinct of courtesy and compliment galvanically astir.