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 there throughout his vigil on the pine stump. Among the guesses which he made was one which was correct. But he did not learn this until afterwards; for when it had come within ten feet of the myrtle thicket, the lynx stopped.

Mayfield watched it curiously. He judged that it had heard what he himself had heard—a sound in the swamp beyond the canes, a faint sound but one which set his pulses beating faster. He knew, or thought that he knew, what that sound was; but the lynx was not so sure. It waited motionless, ears flattened, lips drawn back in a snarl, revealing long, thin, white fangs, its round, bearded face turned a little to the right, so that its pale eyes were no longer directed towards the hunter.

For half a minute it stood thus; and in that half-minute Mayfield's lean, long-fingered right hand moved slowly, cautiously and drew back both hammers of his gun.

Sandy Jim's eyes watched the crouching lynx, but his ears were strained to catch again that faint sound which both he and the lynx had heard. In a moment he heard it again, and this time there was no mistaking it.

Other ears heard it also; and the eyes in the broom grass clump—the large, restless eyes which all along had seemed to be waiting for some desired overdue event—brightened suddenly. But Sandy