Cutler came forth from the shaded depths of the broad hallway to face
the dazzling glare of the morning sunshine, and the pale, stern,
reproachful features of the homeless lieutenant, who simply raised his
hand in salute and said: "I've been ready two hours, sir, and the
runners are long gone."
"Too long and too far for you to catch them now," said Cutler,
catching at another straw. "And there is far more important matter
here. Mr. Blakely, I want that man Downs followed, found, and brought
back to this post, and you're the only man to do it. Take a dozen
troopers, if necessary, and set about it, sir, at once."
A soldier was at the moment hurrying past the front of the hospital, a
grimy-looking packet in his hand. Hearing the voice of Captain Cutler,
he turned, saw Lieutenant Blakely standing there at attention, saw
that, as the captain finished, Blakely still remained a moment as
though about to speak--saw that he seemed a trifle dazed or stunned.
Cutler marked it, too. "This is imperative and immediate, Mr.
Blakely," said he, not unkindly. "Pull yourself together if you are
fit to go at all, and lose no more time." With that he started away.
Graham had come to the doorway, but Blakely never seemed to see him.
Instead he suddenly roused and, turning sharp, sprang down the wooden
steps as though to overtake the captain, when the soldier, saluting,
held forth the dingy packet.
"It was warped out of all shape, sir," said he. "The blacksmith pried
out the lid wid a crowbar. The books are singed and soaked and the
packages charred--all but this."
It fell apart as it passed from hand to hand, and a lot of letters,
smoke-stained, scorched at the edges, and some of them soaking wet,
also two or three carte de visite photographs, were scattered on the
sand. Both men bobbed in haste to gather them up, and Graham came
hurriedly down to help. As Blakely straightened again he swayed and
staggered slightly, and the doctor grasped him by the arm, a sudden
clutch that perhaps shook loose some of the recovered papers from the
long, slim fingers. At all events, a few went suddenly back to earth,
and, as Cutler turned, wondering what was amiss, he saw Blakely, with
almost ashen face, supported by the doctor's sturdy arm to a seat on
the edge of the piazza; saw, as he quickly retraced his steps, a sweet
and smiling woman's face looking up at him out of the trampled sands,
and, even as he stooped to recover the pretty photograph, though it
looked far younger, fairer, and more winsome than ever he had seen it,
Cutler knew the face at once. It was that of Clarice, wife of Major
Plume. Whose, then, were those scattered letters?