"D'ye know him, then?" interposed the other lieutenant.
"He is my man."
"Oh! Sorry for you both. I had heard about it from an officer of Coy's—Cadogan's, I should say; their name's changed."
"Do you know, sir, how he came to be smoked?"
"'Twas an Englishman peached—a soldier of fortune, as it appears, who wished to be nameless. He met the men of Cadogan's when they landed at Rotterdam, and arranged a trick by which they got him alone on the open road. 'Twas rather cleverly managed."
"And a dirty mean thing to do," said Fanshawe warmly.
"Can't something be done for him?" asked Harry.
"'Tis hopeless," was Lieutenant Tettefall's reply. "Robins was very vindictive; he painted the man in the blackest colours in his evidence before the court-martial, and not one of the officers of the court knew your man. He has a double offence to answer for; 'tis certain he'll be shot as soon as the forms are completed."
Harry's face was then the picture of blank despair.
"On my life, 'tis a thousand pities!" said Fanshawe. "I fear there is not the ghost of a chance for him." His face gloomed for a moment; then his high spirits asserted themselves. "But come, Harry, 'tis no good taking on about it; come and forget it over a bottle. I want to hear your story."