The artillery stables were dark, but in the cavalry barracks the officers’ windows were brilliantly lighted, and the sally-port was constantly filled with troopers in fatigues, carrying straw and harness and baskets filled with tin dishes.
Twice the mounted sentry at the gates was changed while I wandered up and down the asphalt walk. I looked at my watch. It was nearly time. The lights in the barracks went out one by one, the barred gate was closed, and every minute or two an officer passed in through the side wicket, leaving a rattle of accoutrements and a jingle of spurs on the night air. The square had become very silent. The last homeless loiterer had been driven away by the gray-coated park policeman, the car tracks along Wooster Street were deserted, and the only sound which broke the stillness was the stamping of the sentry’s horse and the ring of his sabre against the saddle pommel. In the barracks the officers’ quarters were still lighted, and military servants passed and repassed before the bay-windows. Twelve o’clock sounded from the new spire of St. Francis Xavier, and at the last stroke of the sad-toned bell a figure passed through the portcullis, returned the salute of the sentry, and, crossing the street, entered the square and advanced towards the Benedick apartment house.
“Louis,” I called.
The man pivoted on his spurred heels and came straight towards me.
“Is that you, Hildred?”
“Yes, you are on time.”
I took his offered hand and we strolled towards the Lethal Chamber.
