"You are a regular soldier?"
"I was a junior at West Point last year; we were graduated ahead of our class."
Her eyes fell, the lashes outlined on her cheeks, her hands clasped on the table.
"Isn't that odd!" she said quietly. "Do you know Mme. Hactell's school for young ladies at Compton on the Hudson? That is where papa sent me, and I was at the senior hop at West Point a year ago last June. A half dozen of us girls went up; Fred Carlton, of Charleston, was in that class, and he invited me. You knew him, of course?"
My lips were dry, but I nodded, half fearful I might be slipping into some trap, although her words and manner were surely innocent enough.
"We were acquaintances, not friends," I replied, hoping the retort might cause her to change the subject.
"Most of the boys seemed to like him. He was very pleasant to me, and I had a splendid time. I met one cadet named Raymond; he had dark hair and eyes."
"Oh, yes," I managed to answer, now desperately alert. "There was another in the class—James R., I believe."
"I did not learn his first name, but when I heard that a Lieutenant Raymond was coming here, I
