"Mr. Loring," said the official tartly, "when we are ready to relieve you the order will be issued—and not before."
"Colonel Strain," answered Loring, "I shall be at my office all evening, ready to receive that order." And wheeling about he met the General at the door. An open telegram was in the latter's hand, a queer look on his flushed and angry face. Relieving his impatient clerk, Loring seated himself to answer a letter, and there fell from the package he drew from his pocket a little note, and with a sudden pang of shame and sorrow he stooped and picked it up. It was only a tiny missive, only a few sad, almost pleading, words. Did he mean to go without a word of good-by to Pancha? His heart reproached him as he remembered that this had reached him two days before.
He was writing a note to the Lady Superior, telling her of his expectation of sailing on the morrow, and asking if he might be permitted to call to say adieu to his little friend of the shipwreck, when an orderly entered.
"Colonel Strain's compliments and desires to see the lieutenant at once." It was not customary for officers to be so summarily summoned after office hours, but Loring went. With a hand that trembled visibly, but with every effort to control his voice, the chief-of-staff held forth a telegram and said:
"The General desires to know, sir, whether you have sent any telegram to Washington which can account for this?"
Loring took and slowly read it. Divested of address and signature it read as follows:
"The Secretary of War is informed that Lieutenant Loring has not been relieved as directed. Report reason by telegraph."
Loring deliberately finished reading, and then as deliberately looked up.
"I have, sir."
"Then it is the General's order, sir," said the chief-of-staff, "that you go at once to your quarters in close arrest."