"You don't think it is loaded, do you?" inquired Hemming, smiling patiently.
"Loaded!" exclaimed the major, with a start; "oh,—the cigar. Ha, ha."
Hemming's smile became strangely fixed, as he surveyed his friend across the little table. Could this be the same old Anderson, he mused; and, if so, why so confoundedly chesty? Could it be that a staff appointment had come his way? He gave up the riddle, and related some of his adventures in Pernamba, and told of the end of Penthouse's misguided career.
"I saw something about the revolution and your heroism in the New York papers," said Anderson, "but there was no mention of Penthouse."
"He called himself Cuddlehead at that time,—and really it was hardly worth while enlightening the press on that point," replied Hemming. "He was related to Mrs. Travers," he added.
The major moved uneasily in his chair.
"By the way," continued Hemming, with a poor attempt at a casual air, "how are Mrs. Travers and Molly?"
"I believe they are very well," replied his friend.
"See here, Dick," cried the man of adventures, with a vast change of manner, "I must show my hand. Why should I try to bluff you, anyway? Tell me, old chap, do you think I have half a chance."
The colour faded from the major's ruddy cheeks, and he looked forlorn and pathetic, despite his swagger and size.