"I am; what of it?"
"Only I am naturally somewhat interested in your identification of this fellow. To us he has claimed the name of Wyatt, but you address him as Raymond. What Raymond did he represent himself to be?"
Fox stared about in surprise at the faces surrounding him, scarcely able to collect his scattered wits.
"Why," he answered, as though half in doubt of his own words, "Lieutenant Charles H. Raymond, Third Cavalry, on recruiting service. I—I met him at Hot Springs, and he showed me his papers. Isn't—isn't he all right?"
"Well, you can draw your own conclusion," returned the lieutenant, his thin lips curled in a sneer, "for I am Raymond, Third Cavalry. This man is a rebel spy."
Escape was impossible; I knew that, for I had considered the chances. Both Whitlock and the lieutenant—the latter with revolver drawn—stood between me and the windows. The hall without was thronged with troopers, and, although I might attain the open door, that would be the end of it. I saw Noreen rise to her feet, her startled face turned toward me, but I held my nerves firm, and managed to smile.
"I expect the jig is up, gentlemen," I acknowl-
