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 his enemy at last in his power—like the eyes of an avenger to whom has come, after long waiting, the yearned for opportunity to strike his foeman down.

These eyes that lurked in the ambush of the black oak trunk were larger than the eyes that watched from the myrtle thicket, smaller than the eyes that watched from the clump of broom grass; and despite the glitter of triumph in them, they were as cold and gray as polished stone. They were eyes that could wait—that could wait and watch with inexhaustible patience until their moment had come.

They would never grow weary, these eyes. Fate or chance had set an ambuscade in the woods, and one whom these eyes hated had entered that ambuscade. Soon or late the trap would be sprung. Hours might pass before the dun figure on the pine stump made the fatal move to which the eyes of stone looked forward with grim, avid expectation. But hour after hour they would await the coming of that moment. Hour after hour they would watch from their ambush, confident of triumph at the last, sure of the revenge which they desired.

The slow minutes dragged their length along. To Sandy Jim Mayfield came no premonition of peril, no subtle hint of impending tragedy. He was not the kind to whom mysterious warnings come, conveyed by influences or forces beyond human com-