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 tating at every step, but always approaching the hut, until at last it passed within it. Then a match flared inside; I saw it pass the broken window. There was a pause; the door creaked faintly and the figure stole out again.

I put out my hands towards November—he was gone.

Meantime the figure from the hut was moving up the path to the road, and a second figure was gaining on him.

I recognized November's mighty outlines as he followed with arms outstretched. Then the arms fell, and there was a cry, almost a shriek.

When we ran up, November was holding Chris struggling on the ground.

"Search him, boys," said November. "He's got the stuff on him."

Thompson's big hand dived into the breast of Chris's shirt and when it came out again it held a bundle of notes.

"You smart cuss!" said Chris to November Joe.

A few busy hours followed and it was the next afternoon before I found myself again at