That was where he had seen that woman's face before, with its haunting familiarity.

He drew the locket from beneath his shirt, and gazed at the countenance revealed, with new intelligence.

There could be no doubt--it was the face of her who had cared for him so tenderly in that tent at Manassas before the fever came and he had lost consciousness.

And that, then, was Willis Waite lying in that shallow grave near the Cimmaron Crossing, and for whose death he had been arrested.

'T was a strange world, and a small one.