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Dick allowed his attention to rest but briefly upon the third occupant of the room a man with snowy hair and whiskers, who was apparently dropping off to sleep in a big armchair. Somehow or other, the sight of the men but particularly of the stranger acted on his heart like a shower-bath on a man’s head; his pulse slackened, he regained with interest the selfpossession with which he had first approached the window. He took three steps forward, and stood in the middle of the room.

A startled cry escaped the old man and the girl. The man by the fireplace dropped his forearm and turned his head three inches.

Dick strode forward and grasped an outstretched hand.

“Colonel Bristo!”

“Dick Edmonstone! is it really Dick?” a wellremembered voice repeated a dozen times. “We knew you were on your way home, but bless my soul! bless my soul!”

The old soldier could think of nothing else to say; nor did it matter, for Dick’s salute was over and his back turned; he was already clasping the hand of the fair young girl, who had risen, flushed and breathless, to greet him.