d into Honolulu Harbor. There he was arrested and turned back.

Among "Billy Benton's" few effects no letters, no such picture, had been
found, nothing, in fact, to connect him with Foster. Colonel Brent knew
what had become of the _carte-de-visite_, but--how happened it in other
hands than those of Benton? That too was not long to be a mystery.

One day in late December a forlorn-looking fellow begged a drink of the
bartender at the Alhambra on the Escolta--said he was out of money,
deserted by his friends, and took occasion to remind the dispenser of
fluid refreshment that a few weeks ago when he had funds and friends
both he had spent many a dollar there. The bartender waved him away.

"Awe, give the feller a drink," said boys in blue, in the largeness of
their nature and the language of the ranks. "What'll you take, Johnny?
Have one with us," and one of the managers hastened over and whispered
to some of the flannel-shirted squad, but to no purpose.

The "boys" were bent on benevolence, and "beat" though he might be, the
gaunt stranger was made welcome, shared their meat and drink, and,
growing speedily confidential in his cups, told them that he could tell
a tale some folks would pay well to hear, and then proceeded to stiffen
out in a fit.

This brought to mind the event on the Bagumbayan, and somebody said it
was "the same feller if not the same fit," and it wouldn't do to leave
him there. They took him along in their cab and across to their barracks
by the Puente Colgante, and a doctor ministered to him, for it was plain
the poor fellow was in sore plight, and a few days later a story worth
the telling was going the rounds. The good chaplain of the Californians
had heard his partial confession and urged him to tell the whole truth,
and that night the last vestige of the crumbling case against Gerard
Stuyvesant came tumbling to earth, and Connelly, from the Cuartel de
Meisic, nearly ran his sturdy legs off to find Farnham and tell him the
tale.

"My real name," said the broken man, "is of no consequence to anybody. I
soldiered nearly ten years ago in the Seventh Cavalry, but that fight at
Wounded Knee was too much for my nerve, and the boys made life a burden
to me afterwards. I 'took on' in another regiment after I skipped from
the Seventh, but luck was against me. We were sent to Fort Meade, and
there was a gambler in Deadwood, Sackett by name, who had been a few
months in the Seventh, but got bob-tailed o