CHAPTER FIVE.
COLONEL GEORGE HARBISON Terror-stricken as he was, Mr.Shrimplin recognized the man into whose arms he had fallen.

There was no mistaking the nose, thin and aquiline, the bristling mustache and white imperial, the soft gray slouch hat, or the military cloak that half concealed the stalwart form of its wearer.
Colonel George Harbison, much astonished and in utter ignorance of the cause of Mr.Shrimplin's alarm, took that gentleman by the collar and deftly jerked him into an erect posture.
"My dear sir!" the colonel began in a tone of mild expostulation, evidently thinking he had a drunken man to deal with.

"My dear sir, do be more careful--" then he recognized the lamplighter.

"Well, upon my word, Shrimp, what's gone wrong with you ?" he demanded, with military asperity.
"My God, Colonel, if he ain't lying there dead--" a shudder passed through the little man; he was well-nigh dumb in his terror.

"And I stumbled right on to him there on the floor!" he cried with a gasp.
He collapsed again, and again the colonel, whose gloved hand still retained its hold on his collar, set him on his trembling legs with admirable expertness.
"I tell you he's dead!" cried Mr.Shrimplin, lost to everything but that one dreadful fact.
"Who's dead ?" demanded the colonel.