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 It was late, one o'clock, when they parted. Carron's brain boiled with the excitements of thirty-six hours. Its fatigues rested on him not a feather. He found his room dark and warm. The fire had fallen to a red spark. Soft branches moved against the window screens. He set his candle down on the table, and wondered how much there was in Rader's promisings. "Wonderful old boy!" he thought. "A man might believe he was deep in the business, but I've half a notion he is only what he claims, an honorary member of the secret, with a practical sense of honor—only practical thing about him!" It was practical indeed, for it hadn't prevented Rader's inviting him to stay, to stay longer and see what would turn up. It hadn't even prevented Rader's throwing in his way a hunting companion, a person nameless, but somehow it had entered Carron's head that it was a person of importance in his affairs. The thing had only been suggested. It had all been done in a tone unaware of its own significance, and it was that which had made the significance so great.

Faint sounds outside caught his ear, neither the shrill crickets nor the broad, soft sound of the awakening wind, but more regular, muffled and mechanical. He puffed out his light and went, cautious-footed, to the window. It was the window