“Dining-room.”

“Stove?”

“Grate.”

“Did your people own the house?”

“Yes.”

“Do they own it yet?”

“No; sold it when we moved to Bridgeport.”

The secretary paused a little, then said, “Did you have a nickname among your playmates?”

The color slowly rose in the youth’s pale cheeks, and he dropped his eyes. He seemed to struggle with himself a moment or two, then he said, plaintively, “They called me Miss Nancy.”

The secretary mused awhile, then he dug up another question:

“Any ornaments in the dining-room?”

“Well, y—no.”

“None? None at all?”

“No.”

“The mischief! Isn’t that a little odd? Think!”

The youth thought and thought; the secretary waited, slightly panting. At last the imperilled waif looked up sadly and shook his head.

“Think—think!” cried the Major, in anxious solicitude; and poured again.

“Come!” said the secretary, “not even a picture?”

“Oh, certainly! but you said ornament.”

“Ah! What did your father think of it?”

The color rose again. The boy was silent.

“Speak,” said the secretary.

“Speak,” cried the Major, and his trembling hand poured more vodka outside the glasses than inside.

“I—I can’t tell you what he said,” murmured the boy.

“Quick! quick!” said the secretary; “out with it; there’s no time to lose—home and liberty or Siberia and death depend upon the answer.”

“Oh, have pity! he is a clergyman, and—”

“No matter; out with it, or—”

“He said it was the hellfiredest nightmare he ever struck!”