with a curt nod.

"Keefe," he said shortly, "you were under grave charges and failed to
appear before the Board of Safety at the designated time."

The uniformed man glowered around the room. One vestige of satisfaction
remained to him; that of a truculent exit and of it he meant to avail
himself.

"What the hell was the use, Chief. I knew they'd railroad me. I quit
right now."

"It's too late. You can't quit!" The words were sharp and incisive, and
under the chief's forefinger an electric buzzer rasped. As an orderly
appeared, his direction was snapped out: "Call in the lieutenants and
captains from the officers' room."

Keefe took a step forward as if in protest, then realizing his
helplessness, he halted and stood on braced legs, breathing heavily.

He foresaw what was coming, yet there was no escape, for the hour had
struck. He listened stolidly to the ticking clock until several officers
in shoulder straps trooped in and lined up, also waiting, then his
superior's voice again sounded:

"Keefe, your club!"

The officer laid it on the desk.

"Your revolver." The weapon followed the night-stick. Then the chief
rose from his seat.

"You have failed to meet the charges preferred against you. You have
used the city's uniform as a protection for law-breaking and violence.
Now in the presence of these officers I publicly break you." He ripped
the shield from the patrolman's breast and the disgraced man stood a
moment unsteadily--almost rocking on his feet as his lips stirred
without articulate sound. Then he turned away. His lowering eyes fell
upon Morgan Wallifarro, who sat without a word or a change of expression
in his chair against the wainscoted wall. For an instant the patrolman
seemed on the point of bursting into a valedictory of abuse--even of
attack--but he thought better of it, and as he went out there was a
shamble in the step that had swaggered.

* * * * *

Colonel Wallifarro's country place had been opened for the summer, and a
series of house parties were to follow in Anne's honour, but as yet the
season was young and, except for Boone, Victor McCalloway was the
family's only guest.

One evening near to sunset the soldier was sitting alone with Anne under
the spread of tall pines that swayed and whispered in the light breeze.
Before them, graciously undulating to the white turnpike a quarter of a
mile distant, went the woodland pasture where the bluegrass lay