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148 thing in his hand, something that he knew,—the brass key that always stayed in the lock inside the front door to the house.

"What are you doing with that?" he cried in the sharp voice of fear. "Is she away? Heber, is my—is she"—

The wharf tilted like a deck underfoot as he saw the man's face unmask and his eyes answer.

"Last April," faltered Heber, "last April it were— By God, Mard, I'm sorry"—

But Marden had snatched the key and was running down the village street, the canvas bag bobbing over his shoulder.

  He ran on blindly, through the street, and out through the fields knee-deep in timothy and clover. A few of the village people at their doors, looking curiously after the brown-faced young sailor with the wild gray eyes, knew him for Marden Sebright only when 