“Then what was he doing here?” asked General Brant sternly.
“I can't make out, sir, unless he went into the last advance as a volunteer. Wanted to see the fight, I suppose. He was a dashing fellow, a West Pointer,—and a Southerner, too,—a Virginian.”
“A Southerner!” echoed Brant quickly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Search him again,” said Brant quietly. He had recovered his usual coolness, and as the captain again examined the body, he took out his tablets and wrote a few lines. It was an order to search the quarters of Lieutenant Wainwright and bring all papers, letters, and documents to him. He then beckoned one of the detail towards him. “Take that to the provost marshal at once. Well, Captain,” he added calmly, as the officer again approached him, “what do you find?”
“Only this, sir,” returned the captain, with a half smile, producing a small photograph. “I suppose it was overlooked, too.”
He handed it to Brant.
There was a sudden fixing of his commanding officer's eyes, but his face did not otherwise change.
“It's the usual find, General. Always a photograph! But this time a handsome woman!”
“Very,” said Clarence Brant quietly. It was the portrait of his own wife.