The sunshine of an exquisite April morning was shimmering over the Louisiana lowlands as Battery “X” was “hitching in,” and Mrs. Cram’s pretty pony-phaeton came flashing through the garrison gate and reined up in front of the guns.  A proud and happy woman was Mrs. Cram, and daintily she gathered the spotless, cream-colored reins and slanted her long English driving-whip at the exact angle prescribed by the vogue of the day.  By her side, reclining luxuriously on his pillows, was Sam Waring, now senior first lieutenant of the battery, taking his first airing since his strange illness.  Pallid and thin though he was, that young gentleman was evidently capable of appreciating to the fullest extent the devoted attentions of which he had been the object ever since his return.  Stanch friend and fervent champion of her husband’s most distinguished officer at any time, Mrs. Cram had thrown herself into his cause with a zeal that challenged the admiration even of the men whom she mercilessly snubbed because they had accepted the general verdict that Lascelles had died by Waring’s hand.  Had they met in the duello as practised in the South in those days, sword to sword, or armed with pistol at twelve paces, she would have shuddered, but maintained that as a soldier and gentleman Waring could not have refused his opponent’s challenge, inexcusable though such challenge might have been.  But that he could have stooped to vulgar, unregulated fracas, without seconds or the formality of the cartel, first with fists and those women’s weapons, nails, then knives or stilettoes, as though he was some low dago or Sicilian, ­why, that was simply and utterly incredible.  None the less she was relieved and rejoiced, as were all Waring’s friends, when the full purport of poor Doyle’s dying confession was noised abroad.  Even those who were sceptical were now silenced.  For four days her comfort and relief had been inexpressible; and then came the hour when, with woe and trouble in his face, her husband returned to her from Waring’s bedside with the incomprehensible tidings that he had utterly repudiated Doyle’s confession, ­had, indeed, said that which could probably only serve to renew the suspicion of his own guilt, or else justify the theory that he was demented.

Though Cram and the doctor warned Waring not to talk, talk he would, to Pierce, to Ferry, to Ananias; and though these three were pledged by Cram to reveal to no one what Waring said, it plunged them in an agony of doubt and misgiving.  Day after day had the patient told and re-told the story, and never could cross-questioning shake him in the least.  Cram sent for Reynolds and took him into their confidence, and Reynolds heard the story and added his questions, but to no effect.  From first to last he remembered every incident up to his parting with Lascelles at his own gateway.  After that ­nothing.

His story, in brief, was as follows.  He was both surprised and concerned, while smoking and chatting with Mr. Allerton in the rotunda of the St. Charles, to see Lascelles with a friend, evidently watching an opportunity of speaking with him.  He had noticed about a week previous a marked difference in the old Frenchman’s manner, and three days before the tragedy, when calling on his way from town to see Madame and Nin Nin, was informed that they were not at home, and Monsieur himself was the informant; nor did he, as heretofore, invite Waring to enter.  Sam was a fellow who detested misunderstanding.  Courteously, but positively, he demanded explanation.  Lascelles shrugged his shoulders, but gave it.  He had heard too much of Monsieur’s attentions to Madame his wife, and desired their immediate discontinuance.  He must request Monsieur’s assurance that he would not again visit Beau Rivage, or else the reparation due a man of honor, etc.  “Whereupon,” said Waring, “I didn’t propose to be outdone in civility, and therefore replied, in the best French I could command, ’Permit me to tender Monsieur ­both.  Monsieur’s friends will find me at the barracks.’”

“All the same,” said Waring, “when I found Madame and Nin Nin stuck in the mud I did what I considered the proper thing, and drove them, coram publico, to ‘bonne maman’s,’ never letting them see, of course, that there was any row on tap, and so when I saw the old fellow with a keen-looking party alongside I felt sure it meant mischief.  I was utterly surprised, therefore, when Lascelles came up with hat off and hand extended, bowing low, praying pardon for the intrusion, but saying he could not defer another instant the desire to express his gratitude the most profound for my extreme courtesy to Madame and his beloved child.  He had heard the whole story, and, to my confusion, insisted on going over all the details before Allerton, even to my heroism, as he called it, in knocking down that big bully of a cabman.  I was confused, yet couldn’t shake him off.  He was persistent.  He was abject.  He begged to meet my friend, to present his, to open champagne and drink eternal friendship.  He would change the name of his chateau ­the rotten old rookery ­from Beau Rivage to Belle Alliance.  He would make this day a fête in the calendar of the Lascelles family.  And then it began to dawn on me that he had been drinking champagne before he came.  I did not catch the name of the other gentleman, a much younger man.  He was very ceremonious and polite, but distant.  Then, in some way, came up the fact that I had been trying to get a cab to take me back to barracks, and then Lascelles declared that nothing could be more opportune.  He had secured a carriage and was just going down with Monsieur.  They had des affaires to transact at once.  He took me aside and said, ’In proof that you accept my amende, and in order that I may make to you my personal apologies, you must accept my invitation.’  So go with them I did.  I was all the time thinking of Cram’s mysterious note bidding me return at taps.  I couldn’t imagine what was up, but I made my best endeavors to get a cab.  None was to be had, so I was really thankful for this opportunity.  All the way down Lascelles overwhelmed me with civilities, and I could only murmur and protest, and the other party only murmured approbation.  He hardly spoke English at all.  Then Lascelles insisted on a stop at the Pelican and on bumpers of champagne, and there, as luck would have it, was Doyle, ­drunk, as usual, and determined to join the party; and though I endeavored to put him aside, Lascelles would not have it.  He insisted on being presented to the comrade of his gallant friend, and in the private room where we went he overwhelmed Doyle with details of our grand reconciliation and with bumper after bumper of Krug.  This enabled me to fight shy of the wine, but in ten minutes Doyle was fighting drunk, Lascelles tipsy.  The driver came in for his pay, saying he would go no further.  They had a row.  Lascelles wouldn’t pay; called him an Irish thief, and all that.  I slipped my last V into the driver’s hand and got him out somehow.  Monsieur Philippes, or whatever his name was, said he would go out, ­he’d get a cab in the neighborhood; and the next thing I knew, Lascelles and Doyle were in a fury of a row.  Lascelles said all the Irish were knaves and blackguards and swindlers, and Doyle stumbled around after him.  Out came a pistol!  Out came a knife!  I tripped Doyle and got him into a chair, and was so intent on pacifying him and telling him not to make a fool of himself that I didn’t notice anything else.  I handled him good-naturedly, got the knife away, and then was amazed to find that he had my own pet paper-cutter.  I made them shake hands and make up.  It was all a mistake, said Lascelles.  But what made it a worse mistake, the old man would order more wine, and, with it, brandy.  He insisted on celebrating this second grand reconciliation, and then both got drunker, but the tall Frenchman had Lascelles’s pistol and I had the knife, and then a cab came, and, though it was storming beastly and I had Ferry’s duds on and Larkin’s best tile and Pierce’s umbrella, we bundled in somehow and drove on down the levee, leaving Doyle in the hands of that Amazon of a wife of his and a couple of doughboys who happened to be around there.  Now Lascelles was all hilarity, singing, joking, confidential.  Nothing would do but we must stop and call on a lovely woman, a belle amie.  He could rely on our discretion, he said, laying his finger on his nose, and looking sly and coquettish, for all the world like some old roue of a Frenchman.  He must stop and see her and take her some wine.  ‘Indeed,’ he said, mysteriously, ‘it is a rendezvous.’  Well, I was their guest; I had no money.  What could I do?  It was then after eleven, I should judge.  Monsieur Philippes, or whatever his name was, gave orders to the driver.  We pulled up, and then, to my surprise, I found we were at Doyle’s.  That ended it.  I told them they must excuse me.  They protested, but of course I couldn’t go in there.  So they took a couple of bottles apiece and went in the gate, and I settled myself for a nap and got it.  I don’t know how long I slept, but I was aroused by the devil’s own tumult.  A shot had been fired.  Men and women both were screaming and swearing.  Some one suddenly burst into the cab beside me, really pushed from behind, and then away we went through the mud and the rain; and the lightning was flashing now, and presently I could recognize Lascelles, raging.  ‘Infâme!’ ‘Coquin!’ ‘Assassin!’ were the mildest terms he was volleying at somebody; and then, recognizing me, he burst into maudlin tears, swore I was his only friend.  He had been insulted, abused, denied reparation.  Was he hurt?  I inquired, and instinctively felt for my knife.  It was still there where I’d hid it in the inside pocket of my overcoat.  No hurt; not a blow.  Did I suppose that he, a Frenchman, would pardon that or leave the spot until satisfaction had been exacted?  Then I begged him to be calm and listen to me for a moment.  I told him my plight, ­that I had given my word to be at barracks that evening; that I had no money left, but I could go no further.  Instantly he forgot his woes and became absorbed in my affairs. ’Parole d’honneur!’ he would see that mine was never unsullied.  He himself would escort me to the maison de Capitaine Cram.  He would rejoice to say to that brave ennemi, Behold! here is thy lieutenant, of honor the most unsullied, of courage the most admirable, of heart the most magnanimous.  The Lord only knows what he wouldn’t have done had we not pulled up at his gate.  There I helped him out on the banquette.  He was steadied by his row, whatever it had been.  He would not let me expose myself ­even under Pierce’s umbrella.  He would not permit me to suffer ‘from times so of the dog.’  ‘You will drive Monsieur to his home and return here for me at once,’ he ordered cabby, grasped both my hands with fervent good-night and the explanation that he had much haste, implored pardon for leaving me, ­on the morrow he would call and explain everything, ­then darted into the gate.  We never could have parted on more friendly terms.  I stood a moment to see that he safely reached his door, for a light was dimly burning in the hall, then turned to jump into the cab, but it wasn’t there.  Nothing was there.  I jumped from the banquette into a berth aboard some steamer out at sea.  They tell me the first thing I asked for was Pierce’s umbrella and Larkin’s hat.”

And this was the story that Waring maintained from first to last.  “Pills” ventured a query as to whether the amount of Krug and Clicquot consumed might not have overthrown his mental equipoise.  No, Sam declared, he drank very little.  “The only bacchanalian thing I did was to join in a jovial chorus from a new French opera which Lascelles’s friend piped up and I had heard in the North: 

     Oui, buvons, buvons encore! 
     S’il est un vin qu’on adore
     De Paris a Macao,
     C’est lé Clicquot, c’est lé Clicquot.”

Asked if he had formed any conjecture as to the identity of the stranger, Sam said no.  The name sounded like “Philippes,” but he couldn’t be sure.  But when told that there were rumors to the effect that Lascelles’s younger brother had been seen with him twice or thrice of late, and that he had been in exile because, if anything, of a hopeless passion for Madame his sister-in-law, and that his name was Philippe, Waring looked dazed.  Then a sudden light, as of newer, fresher memory, flashed up in his eyes.  He seemed about to speak, but as suddenly controlled himself and turned his face to the wall.  From that time on he was determinedly dumb about the stranger.  What roused him to lively interest and conjecture, however, was Cram’s query as to whether he had not recognized in the cabman, called in by the stranger, the very one whom he had “knocked endwise” and who had tried to shoot him that morning.  “No,” said Waring:  “the man did not speak at all, that I noticed, and I did not once see his face, he was so bundled up against the storm.”  But if it was the same party, suggested he, it seemed hardly necessary to look any further in explanation of his own disappearance.  Cabby had simply squared matters by knocking him senseless, helping himself to his watch and ring, and turning out his pockets, then hammering him until frightened off, and then, to cover his tracks, setting him afloat in Anatole’s boat.

“Perhaps cabby took a hand in the murder, too,” suggested Sam, with eager interest.  “You say he had disappeared, ­gone with his plunder.  Now, who else could have taken my knife?”

Then Reynolds had something to tell him:  that the “lady” who wrote the anonymous letters, the belle amie whom Lascelles proposed to visit, the occupant of the upper floor of “the dove-cot,” was none other than the blighted floweret who had appealed to him for aid and sympathy, for fifty dollars at first and later for more, the first year of his army service in the South, “for the sake of the old home.”  Then Waring grew even more excited and interested.  “Pills” put a stop to further developments for a few days.  He feared a relapse.  But, in spite of “Pills,” the developments, like other maladies, throve.  The little detective came down again.  He was oddly inquisitive about that chanson a boire from “Fleur de The.”  Would Mr. Waring hum it for him?  And Sam, now sitting up in his parlor, turned to his piano, and with long, slender, fragile-looking fingers rattled a lively prelude and then faintly quavered the rollicking words.

“Odd,” said Mr. Pepper, as they had grown to call him, “I heard that sung by a fellow up in Chartres Street two nights hand-running before this thing happened, ­a merry cuss, too, with a rather loose hand on his shekels.  Lots of people may know it, though, mayn’t they?”

“No, indeed, not down here,” said Sam.  “It only came out in New York within the last four months, and hasn’t been South or West at all, that I know of.  What did he look like?”

“Well, what did the feller that was with you look like?”

But here Sam’s description grew vague.  So Pepper went up to have a beer by himself at the cafe chantant on Chartres Street, and didn’t return for nearly a week.

Meantime came this exquisite April morning and Sam’s appearance in the pony-phaeton in front of Battery “X.”  Even the horses seemed to prick up their ears and be glad to see him.  Grim old war sergeants rode up to touch their caps and express the hope that they’d soon have the lieutenant in command of the right section again, ­“not but what Loot’n’t Ferry’s doing first-rate, sir,” ­and for a few minutes, as his fair charioteer drove him around the battery, in his weak, languid voice, Waring indulged in a little of his own characteristic chaffing: 

“I expect you to bring this section up to top notch, Mr. Ferry, as I am constitutionally opposed to any work on my own account.  I beg to call your attention, sir, to the fact that it’s very bad form to appear with full-dress schabraque on your horse when the battery is in fatigue.  The red blanket, sir, the red blanket only should be used.  Be good enough to stretch your traces there, right caisson.  Yes, I thought so, swing trace is twisted.  Carelessness, Mr. Ferry, and indifference to duty are things I won’t tolerate.  Your cheek-strap, too, sir, is an inch too long.  Your bit will fall through that horse’s mouth.  This won’t do, sir, not in my section, sir.  I’ll fine you a box of Partagas if it occurs again.”

But the blare of the bugle sounding “attention” announced the presence of the battery commander.  Nell whipped up in an instant and whisked her invalid out of the way.

“Good-morning, Captain Cram,” said he, as he passed his smiling chief.  “I regret to observe, sir, that things have been allowed to run down somewhat in my absence.”

“Oh, out with you, you combination of cheek and incapacity, or I’ll run you down with the whole battery.  Oh!  Waring, some gentlemen in a carriage have just stopped at your quarters, all in black, too.  Ah, here’s the orderly now.”

And the card, black-bordered, handed into the phaeton, bore a name which blanched Waring’s face: 

+--------------------------------+
|                                |
|    M.  Philippe Lascelles,    |
|                                |
|                                |
|                N’lle Orleans.|
+--------------------------------+

“Why, what is it, Waring?” asked Cram, anxiously, bending down from his saddle.

For a moment Waring was silent.  Mrs. Cram felt her own hand trembling.

“Can you turn the battery over to Ferry and come with me?” asked the lieutenant.

“Certainly. ­Bugler, report to Lieutenant Ferry and tell him I shall have to be absent for a while. ­Drive on, Nell.”

When, five minutes later, Waring was assisted up the stair-way, Cram towering on his right, the little party came upon a group of strangers, ­three gentlemen, one of whom stepped courteously forward, raising his hat in a black-gloved hand.  He was of medium height, slender, erect, and soldierly in bearing; his face was dark and oval, his eyes large, deep, and full of light.  He spoke mainly in English, but with marked accent, and the voice was soft and melodious: 

“I fear I have intrude.  Have I the honor to address Lieutenant Waring?  I am Philippe Lascelles.”

For a moment Waring was too amazed to speak.  At last, with brightening face and holding forth his hand, he said, ­

“I am most glad to meet you, ­to know that it was not you who drove down with us that night.”

“Alas, no!  I left Armand but that very morning, returning to Havana, thence going to Santiago.  It was not until five days ago the news reached me.  It is of that stranger I come to ask.”

It was an odd council gathered there in Waring’s room in the old barracks that April morning while Ferry was drilling the battery to his heart’s content and the infantry companies were wearily going over the manual or bayonet exercise.  Old Brax had been sent for, and came.  Monsieur Lascelles’s friends, both, like himself, soldiers of the South, were presented, and for their information Waring’s story was again told, with only most delicate allusion to certain incidents which might be considered as reflecting on the character and dignity of the elder brother.  And then Philippe told his.  True, there had been certain transactions between Armand and himself.  He had fully trusted his brother, a man of affairs, with the management of the little inheritance which he, a soldier, had no idea how to handle, and Armand’s business had suffered greatly by the war.  It was touching to see how in every word the younger strove to conceal the fact that the elder had misapplied the securities and had been practically faithless to his trust.  Everything, he declared, had been finally settled as between them that very morning before his return to Havana.  Armand had brought to him early all papers remaining in his possession and had paid him what was justly due.  He knew, however, that Armand was now greatly embarrassed in his affairs.  They had parted with fond embrace, the most affectionate of brothers.  But Philippe had been seeing and hearing enough to make him gravely apprehensive as to Armand’s future, to know that his business was rapidly going down-hill, that he had been raising money in various ways, speculating, and had fallen into the hands of sharpers, and yet Armand would not admit it, would not consent to accept help or to use his younger brother’s property in any way.  “The lawyer,” said Philippe, “informed me that Beau Rivage was heavily mortgaged, and it is feared that there will be nothing left for Madame and Nin Nin, though, for that matter, they shall never want.”  What he had also urged, and he spoke with reluctance here, and owned it only because the detectives told him it was now well known, was that Armand had of late been playing the rôle of galant homme, and that the woman in the case had fled.  Of all this he felt, he said, bound to speak fully, because in coming here with his witnesses to meet Lieutenant Waring and his friends he had two objects in view.  The first was to admit that he had accepted as fact the published reports that Lieutenant Waring was probably his brother’s slayer; had hastened back to New Orleans to demand justice or obtain revenge; had here learned from the lawyers and police that there were now other and much more probable theories, having heard only one of which he had cried “Enough,” and had come to pray the forgiveness of Mr. Waring for having believed an officer and a gentleman guilty of so foul a crime.  Second, he had come to invoke his aid in running down the murderer.  Philippe was affected almost to tears.

“There is one question I must beg to ask Monsieur,” said Waring, as the two clasped hands.  “Is there not still a member of your family who entertains the idea that it was I who killed Armand Lascelles?”

And Philippe was deeply embarrassed.

“Ah, monsieur,” he answered, “I could not venture to intrude myself upon a grief so sacred.  I have not seen Madame, and who is there who could ­who would ­tell her of Armand’s ­” And Philippe broke off abruptly, with despairing shrug, and outward wave of his slender hand.

“Let us try to see that she never does know,” said Waring.  “These are the men we need to find:  the driver of the cab, the stranger whose name sounded so like yours, a tall, swarthy, black-haired, black-eyed fellow with pointed moustache ­”

“C’est lui! c’est bien lui!” exclaimed Lascelles, ­“the very man who insisted on entering the private office where, Armand and I, we close our affairs that morning.  His whispered words make my brother all of pale, and yet he go off humming to himself.”

“Oh, we’ll nail him,” said Cram.  “Two of the best detectives in the South are on his trail now.”

And then came Ananias with a silver tray, champagne, and glasses (from Mrs. Cram), and the conference went on another hour before the guests went off.

“Bless my soul!” said Brax, whose diameter seemed in no wise increased by the quart of Roederer he had swallowed with such gusto, ­“bless my soul! and to think I believed that we were going to have a duel with some of those fellows a fortnight or so ago!”

Then entered “Pills” and ordered Waring back to bed.  He was sleeping placidly when, late that evening, Reynolds and Cram came tearing up the stair-way, full of great news; but the doctor said not to wake him.

Meantime, how fared it with that bruised reed, the lone widow of the late Lieutenant Doyle?  Poor old Jim had been laid away with military honors under the flag at Chalmette, and his faithful Bridget was spending the days in the public calaboose.  Drunk and disorderly was the charge on which she had been arraigned, and, though she declared herself abundantly able to pay her fine twice over, Mr. Pepper had warned the authorities to keep her under lock and key and out of liquor, as her testimony would be of vital importance, if for nothing better than to send her up for perjury.  Now she was alternately wheedling, cursing, coaxing, bribing; all to no purpose.  The agent of the Lemaitre property had swooped down on the dove-cot and found a beggarly array of empty bottles and a good deal of discarded feminine gear scattered about on both floors.  One room in which certain detectives were vastly interested contained the unsavory relics of a late supper.  Three or four empty champagne-bottles, some shattered glasses, and, what seemed most to attract them, various stubs of partially-consumed cigarettes, lay about the tables and floor.  Adjoining this was the chamber which had been known as Mrs. Dawson’s, and this, too, had been thoroughly explored.  ’Louette, who had disappeared after Doyle’s tragic death, was found not far away, and the police thought it but fair that Mrs. Doyle should not be deprived of the services of her maid.  Then came other additions, though confined in other sections of the city.  Mr. Pepper wired that the party known as Monsieur Philippes had been run to earth and would reach town with him by train about the same time that another of the force returned from Mobile by boat, bringing a young man known as Dawson and wanted as a deserter, and a very sprightly young lady who appeared to move in a higher sphere of life, but was unquestionably his wife, for the officer could prove their marriage in South Carolina in the spring of ’65.  As Mr. Pepper expressed it when he reported to Reynolds, “It’s almost a full hand, but, for a fact, it’s only a bobtail flush.  We need that cabman to fill.”

“How did you trace Philippes?” asked Reynolds.

“Him?  Oh, he was too darned musical.  It was ­what do you call it? ­Flure de Tay that did for him.  Why, he’s the fellow that raised all the money and most of the h ­ll for this old man Lascelles.  He’d been sharping him for years.”

“Well, when can we bring this thing to a head?” asked the aide-de-camp.

“Poco tiempo! by Saturday, I reckon.”

But it came sooner.

Waring was seated one lovely evening in a low reclining chair on Mrs. Cram’s broad gallery, sipping contentedly at the cup of fragrant tea she had handed him.  The band was playing, and a number of children were chasing about in noisy glee.  The men were at supper, the officers, as a rule, at mess.  For several minutes the semi-restored invalid had not spoken a word.  In one of his customary day-dreams he had been calmly gazing at the shapely white hand of his hostess, “all queenly with its weight of rings.”

“Will you permit me to examine those rings a moment?” he said.

“Why, certainly.  No, you sit still, Mr. Waring,” she replied, promptly rising, and, pulling them off her fingers, dropped them into his open palm.  With the same dreamy expression on his clear-cut, pallid face, he turned them over and over, held them up to the light, finally selected one exquisite gem, and then, half rising, held forth the others.  As she took them and still stood beside his chair as though patiently waiting, he glanced up.

“Oh, beg pardon.  You want this, I suppose?” and, handing her the dainty teacup, he calmly slipped the ring into his waistcoat-pocket and languidly murmured, “Thanks.”

“Well, I like that.”

“Yes?  So do I, rather better than the others.”

“May I ask what you purpose doing with my ring?”

“I was just thinking.  I’ve ordered a new Amidon for Larkin, a new ninety-dollar suit for Ferry, and I shall be decidedly poor this month, even if we recover Merton’s watch.”

“Oh, well, if it’s only to pawn one, why not take a diamond?”

“But it isn’t.”

“What then, pray?”

“Well, again I was just thinking ­whether I could find another to match this up in town, or send this one ­to her.”

“Mr. Waring! Really?” And now Mrs. Cram’s bright eyes are dancing with eagerness and delight.

For all answer, though his own eyes begin to moisten and swim, he draws from an inner pocket a dainty letter, post-marked from a far, far city to the northeast.

“You dear fellow!  How can I tell you how glad I am!  I haven’t dared to ask you of her since we met at Washington, but ­oh, my heart has been just full of her since ­since this trouble came.”

“God bless the trouble! it was that that won her to me at last.  I have loved her ever since I first saw her ­long years ago.”

“Oh! oh! OH! if Ned were only here!  I’m wild to tell him.  I may, mayn’t I?”

“Yes, the moment he comes.”

But Ned brought a crowd with him when he got back from town a little later.  Reynolds was there, and Philippe Lascelles, and Mr. Pepper, and they had a tale to tell that must needs be condensed.

They had all been present by invitation of the civil authorities at a very dramatic affair during the late afternoon, ­the final lifting of the veil that hid from public view the “strange, eventful history” of the Lascelles tragedy.  Cram was the spokesman by common consent.  “With the exception of the Dawsons,” said he, “none of the parties implicated knew up to the hour of his or her examination that any one of the others was to appear.”  Mrs. Dawson, eager to save her own pretty neck, had told her story without reservation.  Dawson knew nothing.

The story had been wrung from her piecemeal, but was finally told in full, and in the presence of the officers and civilians indicated.  She had married in April, ’65, to the scorn of her people, a young Yankee officer attached to the commissary department.  She had starved all through the war.  She longed for life, luxury, comforts.  She had nothing but her beauty, he nothing but his pay.  The extravagances of a month swamped him; the drink and desperation of the next ruined him.  He maintained her in luxury at the best hotel only a few weeks, then all of his and much of Uncle Sam’s money was gone.  Inspection proved him a thief and embezzler.  He fled, and she was abandoned to her own resources.  She had none but her beauty and a gift of penmanship which covered the many sins of her orthography.  She was given a clerkship, but wanted more money, and took it, blackmailing a quartermaster.  She imposed on Waring, but he quickly found her out and absolutely refused afterwards to see her at all.  She was piqued and angered, “a woman scorned,” but not until he joined Battery “X” did opportunity present itself for revenge.  She had secured a room under Mrs. Doyle’s reputable roof, to be near the barracks, where she could support herself by writing for Mrs. Doyle and blackmailing those whom she lured, and where she could watch him, and, to her eager delight, she noted and prepared to make much of his attentions to Madame Lascelles.  Incidentally, too, she might inveigle the susceptible Lascelles himself, on the principle that there’s no fool like an old fool.  Mrs. Doyle lent herself eagerly to the scheme.  The letters began to pass to and fro again.  Lascelles was fool enough to answer, and when, all on a sudden, Mrs. Doyle’s “long-missing relative,” as she called him, turned up, a pensioner on her charity, it was through the united efforts of the two women he got a situation as cab-driver at the stable up at the eastern skirt of the town.  Dawson had enlisted to keep from starving, and, though she had no use for him as a husband, he would do to fetch and carry, and he dare not disobey.  Twice when Doyle was battery officer of the day did this strangely-assorted pair of women entertain Lascelles at supper and fleece him out of what money he had.  Then came Philippes with Lascelles in Mike’s cab, as luck would have it, but they could not fleece Philippes.  Old Lascelles was rapidly succumbing to Nita’s fascinations when came the night of the terrible storm.  Mike had got to drinking, and was laid low by the lieutenant.  Mike and Bridget both vowed vengeance.  But meantime Doyle himself had got wind of something that was going on, and he and his tyrant had a fearful row.  He commanded her never to allow a man inside the premises when he was away, and, though brought home drunk that awful night, furiously ordered the Frenchman out, and might have assaulted them had not Bridget lassoed him with a chloroformed towel.  That was the last he knew until another day.  Lascelles, Philippes, and she, Mrs. Dawson, had already drunk a bottle of champagne when interrupted by Doyle’s coming.  Lascelles was tipsy, had snatched his pistol and fired a shot to frighten Doyle, but had only enraged him, and then he had to run for his cab.  He was bundled in and Doyle disposed of.  It was only three blocks down to Beau Rivage, and thither Mike drove them in all the storm.  She did not know at the time of Waring’s being in the cab.  In less than fifteen minutes Mike was back and called excitedly for Bridget; had a hurried consultation with her; she seized a waterproof and ran out with him, but darted back and took the bottle of chloroform she had used on her husband, now lying limp and senseless on a sofa below, and then she disappeared.  When half an hour passed and Lascelles failed to return with them, bringing certain papers of which he’d been speaking to Philippes, the latter declared there must be something wrong, and went out to reconnoitre despite the storm.  He could see nothing.  It was after midnight when Mrs. Doyle came rushing in, gasping, all out of breath “along of the storm,” she said.  She had been down the levee with Mike to find a cushion and lap-robe he dropped and couldn’t afford to lose.  They never could have found it at all “but for ould Lascelles lending them a lantern.”  He wanted Mike to bring down two bottles of champagne he’d left here, but it was storming so that he would not venture again, and Lieutenant Waring, she said, was going to spend the night with Lascelles at Beau Rivage:  Mike couldn’t drive any farther down towards the barracks.  Lascelles sent word to Philippes that he’d bring up the papers first thing in the morning, if the storm lulled, and Philippes went out indignant at all the time lost, but Mike swore he’d not drive down again for a fortune.  So the Frenchman got into the cab and went up with him to town.  The moment he was gone Mrs. Doyle declared she was dead tired, used up, and drank huge goblets of the wine until she reeled off to her room, leaving an apron behind.  Then Mrs. Dawson went to her own room, after putting out the lights, and when, two days later, she heard the awful news of the murder, knowing that investigation would follow and she and her sins be brought to light, she fled, for she had enough of his money in her possession, and poor demented Dawson, finding her gone, followed.

Philippes’s story corroborated this in every particular.  The last he saw of the cab or of the cabman was near the house of the hook-and-ladder company east of the French Market.  The driver there said his horse was dead beat and could do no more, so Philippes went into the market, succeeded in getting another cab by paying a big price, slept at Cassidy’s, waited all the morning about Lascelles’s place, and finally, having to return to the Northeast at once, he took the evening train on the Jackson road and never heard of the murder until ten days after.  He was amazed at his arrest.

And then came before his examiners a mere physical wreck, ­the shadow of his former self, ­caught at the high tide of a career of crime and debauchery, a much less bulky party than the truculent Jehu of Madame Lascelles’s cab, yet no less important a witness than that same driver.  He was accompanied by a priest.  He had been brought hither in an ambulance from the Hotel-Dieu, where he had been traced several days before and found almost at death’s door.  His confession was most important of all.  He had struck Lieutenant Waring as that officer turned away from Lascelles’s gate, intending only to down and then kick and hammer him, but he had struck with a lead-loaded rubber club, and he was horrified to see him drop like one dead.  Then he lost his nerve and drove furiously back for Bridget.  Together they returned, and found Waring lying there as he had left him on the dripping banquette.  “You’ve killed him, Mike.  There’s only one thing to do,” she said:  “take his watch and everything valuable he has, and we’ll throw him over on the levee.”  She herself took the knife from his overcoat-pocket, lest he should recover suddenly, and then, said the driver, “even as we were bending over him there came a sudden flash of lightning, and there was Lascelles bending over us, demanding to know what it meant.  Then like another flash he seemed to realize what was up, sprang back, and drew pistol.  He had caught us in the act.  There was nothing else to do; we both sprang upon him.  He fired, and hit me, but only in the arm, and before he could pull trigger again we both grappled him.  I seized his gun, Bridget his throat, but he screamed and fought like a tiger, then wilted all of a sudden.  I was scared and helpless, but she had her wits about her, and told me what to do.  The lieutenant began to gasp and revive just then, so she soaked the handkerchief in chloroform and placed it over his mouth, and together we lifted him into the cab.  Then we raised Lascelles and carried him in and laid him on his sofa, for he had left the door open and the lamp on the table.  Bridget had been there before, and knew all about the house.  We set the pistol back in his hand, but couldn’t make the fingers grasp it.  We ransacked the desk and got what money there was, locked and bolted the doors, and climbed out of the side window, under which she dropped the knife among the bushes.  ‘They’ll never suspect us in the world, Mike,’ she said.  ’It’s the lieutenant’s knife that did it, and, as he was going to fight him anyhow, he’ll get the credit of it all.’  Then we drove up the levee, put Waring in Anatole’s boat, sculls and all, and shoved him off.  ’I’ll muzzle Jim,’ she said.  ’I’ll make him believe ’twas he that did it when he was drunk.’  She took most of the money, and the watch and ring.  She said she could hide them until they’d be needed.  Then I drove Philippes up to town until I began to get so sick and faint I could do no more.  I turned the cab loose and got away to a house where I knew they’d take care of me, and from there, when my money was gone, they sent me to the hospital, thinking I was dying.  I swear to God I never meant to more than get square with the lieutenant.  I never struck Lascelles at all; ’twas she who drove the knife into his heart.”

Then, exhausted, he was led into an adjoining room, and Mrs. Doyle was marched in, the picture of injured Irish innocence.  For ten minutes, with wonderful effrontery and nerve, she denied all personal participation in the crime, and faced her inquisitors with brazen calm.  Then the chief quietly turned and signalled.  An officer led forward from one side the wreck of a cabman, supported by the priest; a door opened on the other, and, escorted by another policeman, Mrs. Dawson re-entered, holding in her hands outstretched a gingham apron on which were two deep stains the shape and size of a long, straight-bladed, two-edged knife.  It was the apron that Bridget Doyle had worn that fatal night.  One quick, furtive look at that, one glance at her trembling, shrinking, cowering kinsman, and, with an Irish howl of despair, a loud wail of “Mike, Mike, you’ve sworn your sister’s life away!” she threw herself upon the floor, tearing madly at her hair.  And so ended the mystery of Beau Rivage.

There was silence a moment in Cram’s pretty parlor when the captain had finished his story.  Waring was the first to speak: 

“There is one point I wish they’d clear up.”

“What’s that?” said Cram.

“Who’s got Merton’s watch?”

“Oh, by Jove!  I quite forgot.  It’s all right, Waring.  Anatole’s place was ‘pulled’ last night, and he had her valuables all done up in a box.  ‘To pay for his boat,’ he said.”

A quarter of a century has passed away since the scarlet plumes of Light Battery “X” were last seen dancing along the levee below New Orleans.  Beau Rivage, old and moss-grown at the close of the war, fell into rapid decline after the tragedy of that April night.  Heavily mortgaged, the property passed into other hands, but for years never found a tenant.  Far and near the negroes spoke of the homestead as haunted, and none of their race could be induced to set foot within its gates.  One night the sentry at the guard-house saw sudden light on the westward sky, and then a column of flame.  Again the fire-alarm resounded among the echoing walls of the barracks; but when the soldiers reached the scene, a seething ruin was all that was left of the old Southern home.  Somebody sent Cram a marked copy of a New Orleans paper, and in their cosey quarters at Fort Hamilton the captain read it aloud to his devoted Nell:  “The old house has been vacant, an object of almost superstitious dread to the neighborhood,” said the Times, “ever since the tragic death of Armand Lascelles in the spring of 1868.  In police annals the affair was remarkable because of the extraordinary chain of circumstantial evidence which for a time seemed to fasten the murder upon an officer of the army then stationed at Jackson Barracks, but whose innocence was triumphantly established.  Madame Lascelles, it is understood, is now educating her daughter in Paris, whither she removed immediately after her marriage a few months ago to Captain Philippe Lascelles, formerly of the Confederate army, a younger brother of her first husband.”

“Well,” said Cram, “I’ll have to send that to Waring.  They’re in Vienna by this time, I suppose.  Look here, Nell; how was it that when we fellows were fretting about Waring’s attentions to Madame, you should have been so serenely superior to it all, even when, as I know, the stories reached you?”

“Ah, Ned, I knew a story worth two of those.  He was in love with Natalie Maitland all the time.”