"I don't know and I don't care," Barnes answered with a weak attempt at bluster. "They're mine now, and I'm going to stick to them."
The Colonel shook his head.
"He broke his trust to a dying man," he said softly,—"to a man who lay on the veldt at Colenso with three great wounds in his body, and his life's blood staining the ground. He had carried those letters into action with him, because they were precious to him. His last thought was that they should be destroyed. Your brother swore to do this. He broke his word. He turned blackmailer."
"You're very fond of that word," Barnes muttered. "How do you know so much?"
"The soldier was my son," the Colonel answered, "and he did not die. You see I have a right to those letters. Will you give them to me?"
Give them up! Give up all his hopes of affluence, his dreams of an easy life, of the cheap luxuries and riches which formed the Heaven of his desire! No! He was not coward enough for that. He did not believe that this mild-looking old gentleman would use force. Besides, he could not be very strong. He ought to be able to push him over and escape!
"No!" he answered bluntly, "I won't!"
The Colonel looked thoughtful.
"It is a pity," he said quietly. "I am sorry to hear you say that. Your brother, when I asked him, made the same reply."
Barnes felt himself suddenly grow hot and then cold. The perspiration stood out upon his forehead.
"I called upon your brother a few days before his death," the Colonel continued calmly. "I explained
