riously into the dark
eyes of the youngster. "Perhaps I'd better see the officer of the day at
once."

"You'll find him at the club. He's just gone in," said Ray, mindful of
the fact that this was the captain's time for a cocktail, and with a
courteous salute the aide-de-camp hastened away.

In five minutes he was back with a pencilled scrawl from Kress to the
effect that Lieutenant Stuyvesant was to be permitted to interview the
prisoner Murray outside the guard-house, but sentries must be placed to
prevent escape.

Quickly young Ray called out the corporal and two men, warned them of
the duty demanded, stationed them up and down the road and opposite the
guard-house, but just out of ear-shot, ordered the prisoner brought
forth, and then, leaving Stuyvesant standing at the post of Number One,
stepped a dozen yards away into the mist.

A minute later out came the sergeant, marshalling Murray after him, a
sentry at his heels. Then in the gathering darkness the tall officer and
the short, thick-set soldier met face to face, and the latter recoiled
and began glancing quickly, furtively about him.

Just how it all happened Ray could never quite tell. The light was now
feeble, the lamps were only just beginning to burn. There was a moment
of low-toned talk between the two, a question twice repeated in firmer
tone, then a sudden, desperate spring and dash for liberty.

Like a centre rush--a charging bull--the prisoner came head on straight
to where young Ray was standing, heedless of a yell to halt, and in less
time than it takes to tell it, the lithe little athlete of West Point's
crack football team had sprung and tackled and downed him in his tracks.

Biting, cursing, straining, the big bully lay in the mud, overpowered
now by the instant dash of the guard, while their bantam officer, rising
and disgustedly contemplating the smear of wet soil over his new
overcoat, was presently aware of Stuyvesant, bending forward, extending
a helping hand, and exclaiming:

"By Jove, but that was a neat tackle! You must have been a joy to _your_
team. What was it?"

"West Point--last year's."

"And may I ask--the name?"

"My name's Ray," said Sandy with beaming smile, showing a row of even,
white teeth under the budding, dark mustache, and Stuyvesant felt the
warm blood surging to his forehead, just as it had before that day in
the general's tent.

"I think I should have known that," he presently stammered. "It was Miss
Ra