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Frowning painfully, he waved Meehan from him.

“Wait,” he commanded. “I don’ unnerstan’. What good’s it goin’ to do you to lock me up an’ disgrace me? What harm have I done you? Who asked you to run the army, anyway? Who are you?”

“My name is Standish,” said the lieutenant. “My father was colonel of the Thirty-third when you first joined it from the Academy.”

Aintree exclaimed with surprise and enlightenment. He broke into hurried speech, but Standish cut him short.

“And General Standish of the Mexican War,” he continued, “was my grandfather. Since Washington all my people have been officers of the regular army, and I’d been one, too, if I’d been bright enough. That’s why I respect the army. That’s why I’m going to throw you out of it. You’ve done harm fifty men as good as you can’t undo. You’ve made drunkards of a whole battalion. You’ve taught boys who looked up to you, as I looked up to you once, to laugh at discipline, to make swine of themselves. You’ve set them an example. I’m going to make an example of you. That’s all there is to this. I’ve got no grudge against you. I’m not vindictive; I’m sorry for you. But,” he paused and pointed his hand at Aintree as though it held a gun, “you are going to leave the army!”

Like a man coming out of an ugly dream, Aintree opened and shut his eyes, shivered, and stretched his great muscles. They watched him with an effort of the will force himself back to consciousness. When again he spoke, his tone was sane.

“See here, Standish,” he began, “I’ll not beg of you or any man. I only ask you to think what you’re doing. This means my finish. If you force this through to-night it means court-martial, it means I lose my commission, I lose–lose things you know nothing about. And, if I’ve got a record for drinking, I’ve got a record for other things, too. Don’t forget that!”

Standish shook his head. “I didn’t forget it,” he said.

“Well, suppose I did,” demanded Aintree. “Suppose I did go on the loose, just to pass the time, just because I’m sick of this damned ditch? Is it fair to wipe out all that went before, for that? I’m the youngest major in the army, I served in three campaigns, I’m a medal-of-honor man, I’ve got a career ahead of me, and–and I’m going to be married. If you give me a chance-“

Standish struck the table with his fist.

“I will give you a chance,” he cried. “If you’ll give your word to this man and to me, that, so help you God, you’ll never drink again–I’ll let you go.”

If what Standish proposed had been something base, Aintree could not have accepted it with more contempt.

“I’ll see you in hell first,” he said.

As though the interview was at an end, Standish dropped into his chair and leaning forward, from the table picked up a cigar. As he lit it, he motioned Meehan toward his prisoner, but before the policeman could advance the sound of footsteps halted him.

Bullard, his eyes filled with concern, leaped up the steps, and ran to the desk.

“Lieutenant!” he stammered, “that man–the nigger that officer shot–he’s dead!”

Aintree gave a gasp that was partly a groan, partly a cry of protest, and Bullard, as though for the first time aware of his presence, sprang back to the open door and placed himself between it and Aintree.

“It’s murder!” he said.

None of the three men spoke; and when Meehan crossed to where Aintree stood, staring fearfully at nothing, he had only to touch his sleeve, and Aintree, still staring, fell into step beside him.

From the yard outside Standish heard the iron door of the cell swing shut, heard the key grate in the lock, and the footsteps of Meehan returning.