It was some little time before Rupert, finding himself unable to find any solution whatever to the mystery, opened the letter. As he did so he stirred the fire by which they were sitting into a fresh blaze. He read a few lines and uttered an exclamation of such intense surprise that Easton sat up with a start.
"What is it, Clinton?"
"It is the most extraordinary thing I ever came across, Easton. You know the story about Edgar and myself. Well, this wounded sergeant is either his father or mine."
"Impossible!" Easton exclaimed; "he did not look much above thirty; besides, no soldier of twenty-one years' service—and he must have had fully that—would be out here."
Rupert made no reply; he was running his eyes rapidly through the letter.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed; "Edgar is out here; he is a trumpeter in the Heavies."
"That is news, Rupert. I congratulate you heartily, old fellow. You are sure that there is no mistake?"
"No; there cannot be any mistake about that," Rupert said, thrusting the letter into his tunic. "Come along, Easton, let us be off. He goes by the name of Ned Smith."
"Wait a moment, old man," Easton said, laying his hand kindly on Rupert's shoulder. "Where was the letter written?"
"At Korti."