Peter was silent. It was a harrowing, sordid story of primitive passion. He was very sorry for her.

Beth made an abrupt graceful movement of an arm across her brows, as though to wipe out the memory.

"I don't know why I've told you," she said. "I never speak of this to any one."

"I'm so sorry."

He meant it. And Beth knew that he did.



CHAPTER VIII

THE PLACARD

The look that she had given him showed her sense of his sympathy. So he ventured,

"Did you hear from your father before he died?"

"Aunt Tillie did,—once. Then we got word he'd been killed in a railway accident out West. I was glad. A man like that has no right to live."

"You and Aunt Tillie have had a pretty hard time——" he mused.

"Yes. She's an angel—and I love her. Why is it that good people have nothin' but trouble? She had an uncle who went bad too—he was younger than she was—my great-uncle—Jack Bray—he forged a check—or somethin' up in Newark—and went to the penitentiary."

"And is he dead too?"

"No—not at last accounts. He's out—somewhere. When I was little he used to come to Aunt Tillie for money—a tall, lantern-jawed man. I saw him once three years ago. He was here. Aunt Tillie tried to keep me out of the kitchen. But I thought he was up to some funny business and stayed. He took a fancy to me. He said he was camera man in the movies. He wanted me to go with him—thought I could be as good as Mary Pickford. I'm glad I didn't go—from what I know now. He was a bad man. Aunt Tillie was scared of him. Poor soul! She gave him all she had—most of what was left from the old farm, I guess."

"Do you think——" began Peter, then paused. And as she glanced at him inquiringly, "Did you notice that your Aunt Tillie seemed—er—frightened last night?" he asked at last.

"I thought so for a while, but she said she was only sick. She never lies to me."

"She seemed very much disturbed."

"Her nerve's not what it used to be—especially since Mr. McGuire's taken to seein' things——"

"You don't believe then that she could have seen John Bray—that he had come back again last night?"

"Why, no," said Beth, turning in surprise. "I never thought of it—and yet," she paused, "yes,—it might have been——"

She became more thoughtful but didn't go on. Peter was on the trail of a clew to the mystery, but she had already told him so much that further questions seemed like personal intrusion. And so,

"I'd like to tell you, Beth," he said, "that I'm your friend and Mrs. Bergen's. If anything should turn up to make you unhappy or to make your aunt unhappy and I can help you, won't you let me know?"

"Why—do you think anything is goin' to happen?" she asked.

His reply was noncommittal.

"I just wanted you to know you could count on me——" he said soberly. "I think you've had trouble enough."

"But I'm not afraid of Jack Bray," she said with a shrug, "even if Aunt Tillie is. He can't do anything to me. He can't make me go to New York if I don't want to."

She had clenched her brown fists in her excitement and Peter laughed.

"I think I'd be a little sorry for anybody who tried to make you do anything you didn't want to do," he said.

She frowned. "Why, if I thought that bandy-legged, lantern-jawed, old buzzard was comin' around here frightenin' Aunt Tillie, I'd—I'd——"

"What would you do?"

"Never you mind what I'd do. But I'm not afraid of Jack Bray," she finished confidently.

The terrors that had been built up around the house of McGuire, the mystery surrounding the awe-inspiring prowler, the night vigils, the secrecy—all seemed to fade into a piece of hobbledehoy buffoonery at Beth's contemptuous description of her recreant relative. And he smiled at her amusedly.

"But what would you say," he asked seriously, "if I told you that last night Mr. McGuire saw the same person your Aunt Tillie did, and that he was terrified—almost to the verge of collapse?"

Beth had risen, her eyes wide with incredulity.

"Merciful Father! McGuire! Did he have another spell last night? You don't mean——?"

"I went up to his room. He was done for. He had seen outside the drawing-room window the face of the very man he's been guarding himself against."

"I can't believe——," she gasped. "And you think Aunt Tillie——?"

"Your Aunt Tillie talked to a man outside the door of the kitchen. You didn't hear her. I did. The same man who had been frightening Mr. McGuire."

"Aunt Tillie!" she said in astonishment.

"There's not a doubt of it. McGuire saw him. Andy saw him too,—thought he was the chauffeur."

Beth's excitement was growing with the moments.

"Why, Aunt Tillie didn't know anything about what was frightening Mr. McGuire—no more'n I did," she gasped.

"She knows now. She wasn't sick last night, Beth. She was just bewildered—frightened half out of her wits. I spoke to her after you went home. She wouldn't say a word. She was trying to conceal something. But there was a man outside and she knows who he is."

"But what could Jack Bray have to do with Mr. McGuire?" she asked in bewilderment.

Peter shrugged. "You know as much as I do. I wouldn't have told you this if you'd been afraid. But Mrs. Bergen is."

"Well, did you ever?"

"No, I never did," replied Peter, smiling.

"It does beat anything."

"It does. It's most interesting, but as far as I can see, hardly alarming for you, whatever it may be to Mr. McGuire or Mrs. Bergen. If the man is only your great-uncle, there ought to be a way to deal with him——"

"I've just got to talk to Aunt Tillie," Beth broke in, moving toward the door. Peter followed her, taking up his hat.

"I'll go with you," he said.

For a few moments Beth said nothing. She had passed through the stages of surprise, anger and bewilderment, and was now still indignant but quite self-contained. When he thought of Beth's description of the Ghost of Black Rock House, Peter was almost tempted to forget the terrors of the redoubtable McGuire. A man of his type hardly lapses into hysteria at the mere thought of a "bandy-legged buzzard." And yet McGuire's terrors had been so real and were still so real that it was hardly conceivable that Bray could have been the cause of them. Indeed it was hardly conceivable that the person Beth described could be a source of terror to any one. What was the answer?

"Aunt Tillie doesn't know anything about McGuire," Beth said suddenly. "She just couldn't know. She tells me everything."

"But of course it's possible that McGuire and this John Bray could have met in New York——"

"What would Mr. McGuire be doin' with him?" she said scornfully.

Peter laughed.

"It's what he's doing with McGuire that matters."

"I don't believe it's Bray," said Beth confidently. "I don't believe it."

They had reached a spot where the underbrush was thin, and Beth, who had been looking past the tree trunks toward the beginnings of the lawns, stopped suddenly, her eyes focusing upon some object closer at hand.

"What's that?" she asked, pointing.

Peter followed the direction of her gaze. On a tree in the woods not far from the path was a square of cardboard, but Beth's eyes were keener than Peter's, and she called his attention to some writing upon it.

They approached curiously. With ironic impudence the message was scrawled in red crayon upon the reverse of one of Jonathan McGuire's neat trespass signs, and nailed to the tree by an old hasp-knife. Side by side, and intensely interested, they read:

TO MIKE MCGUIRE

I'VE COME BACK.

YOU KNOW WHAT I'VE GOT AND I KNOW WHAT YOU'VE GOT. ACT PRONTO. I'LL COME FOR MY ANSWER AT ELEVEN FRIDAY NIGHT—AT THIS TREE. NO TRICKS. IF THERE'S NO ANSWER—YOU KNOW WHAT I'LL DO.

HAWK.

"Hawk!" muttered Beth, "who on earth——?"

"Another——," said Peter cryptically.

"You see!" cried Beth triumphantly, "I knew it couldn't be Jack Bray!"

"This chap seems to be rather in earnest, doesn't he? Pronto! That means haste."

"But it's only a joke. It must be," cried Beth.

Peter loosened the knife, took the placard down and turned it over, examining it critically.

"I wonder." And then, thoughtfully, "No, I don't believe it is. It's addressed to McGuire. I'm going to take it to him."

"Mike McGuire," corrected Beth. And then, "But it really does look queer."

"It does," assented Peter; "it appears to me as if this message must have come from the person McGuire saw last night."

Beth looked bewildered.

"But what has Aunt Tillie got to do with—with Hawk? She never knew anybody of that name."

"Probably not. It isn't a real name, of course."

"Then why should it frighten Mr. McGuire?" she asked logically.

Peter shook his head. All the props had fallen from under his theories.

"Whether it's real to McGuire or not is what I want to know. And I'm going to find out," he finished.

When they reached a path which cut through the trees toward the creek, Beth stopped, and held out her hand.

"I'm not goin' up to the house with you and I don't think I'll see Aunt Tillie just now," she said. "Good-by, Mr.——"

"Peter——," he put in.

"Good-by, Mr. Peter."

"Just Peter——" he insisted.

"Good-by, Mr. Just Peter. Thanks for the playin'. Will you let me come again?"

"Yes. And I'm going to get you some music——"

"Singin' music?" she gasped.

He nodded.

"And you'll let me know if I can help—Aunt Tillie or you?"

She bobbed her head and was gone.

Peter stood for a while watching the path down which she had disappeared, wondering at her abrupt departure, which for the moment drove from his mind all thought of McGuire's troubles. It was difficult to associate Beth with the idea of prudery or affectation. Her visit proved that. She had come to the Cabin because she had wanted to hear him play, because she had wanted to sing for him, because too his promises had excited her curiosity about him, and inspired a hope of his assistance. But the visit had flattered Peter. He wasn't inured to this sort of frankness. It was perhaps the greatest single gift of tribute and confidence that had ever been paid him—at least by a woman. A visit of this sort from a person like Anastasie Galitzin or indeed from almost any woman in the world of forms and precedents in which he had lived would have been equivalent to unconditional surrender.

The girl had not stopped to question the propriety of her actions. That the Cabin was Peter's bedroom, that she had only seen him twice, that he might not have understood the headlong impulse that brought her, had never occurred to Beth. The self-consciousness of the first few moments had been wafted away on the melody of the music he had played, and after that he knew they were to be friends. There seemed to be no doubt in Peter's mind that she could have thought they would be anything else.

And Peter was sure that he had hardly been able, even if he had wished, to conceal his warm admiration for her physical beauty. She had been very near him. All he would have had to do was to reach out and take her. That he hadn't done so seemed rather curious now. And yet he experienced a sort of mild satisfaction that he had resisted so trying a temptation. If she hadn't been so sure of him.... Idealism? Perhaps. The same sort of idealism that had made Peter believe the people at Zukovo were fine enough to make it worth while risking his life for them—that had made him think that the people of Russia could emerge above Russia herself. He had no illusions as to Zukovo now, but Beth was a child—and one is always gentle with children.

He puzzled for another moment over her decision not to be seen coming with him from the Cabin. Had this sophistication come as an afterthought, born of something that had passed between them? Or was it merely a feminine instinct seeking expression? Peter didn't care who knew or saw, because he really liked Beth amazingly. She had a gorgeous voice. He would have to develop it. He really would.

All the while Peter was turning over in his fingers the placard bearing the strange message to "Mike" McGuire from the mysterious "Hawk." He read and reread it, each time finding a new meaning in its wording. Blackmail? Probably. The "pronto" was significant. This message could hardly have come from Beth's "bandy-legged buzzard." He knew little of movie camera men, but imagined them rather given to the depiction of villainies than the accomplishment of them. And a coward who would prey upon an old woman and a child could hardly be of the metal to attempt such big game as McGuire. The mystery deepened. The buzzard was now a hawk. "Hawk," whatever his real name, was the man McGuire had seen last night through the window. Was he also the man who had frightened Mrs. Bergen? And if so, how and where had she known him without Beth's being aware of it? And why should Beth be involved in the danger?

Peter was slowly coming to the belief that there had been two men outside the house last night, "Hawk" and John Bray. And yet it seemed scarcely possible that the men on guard should not have seen the second man and that both men could have gotten away without leaving a trace. And where was the man with the black mustache? Was he John Bray? Impossible. It was all very perplexing. But here in his hand he held the tangible evidence of McGuire's fears. "You know what I've got and I know what you've got." The sentence seemed to have a cabalistic significance—a pact—a threat which each man held over the other. Perhaps it wasn't money only that "Hawk" wanted. Whatever it was, he meant to have it, and soon. The answer the man expected was apparently something well understood between himself and McGuire, better understood perhaps since the day McGuire had seen him in New York and had fled in terror to Sheldon, Senior's, office. And if McGuire didn't send the desired answer to the tree by Friday night, there would be the very devil to pay—if not "Hawk."

Peter was to be the bearer of ill tidings and with them, he knew, all prospect of a business discussion would vanish. The situation interested him, as all things mysterious must, and he could not forget that he was, for the present, part policeman, part detective; but forestry was his real job here and every day that passed meant so many fewer days in which to build the fire towers. And these he considered to be a prime necessity to the security of the estate.

He rolled the placard up and went toward the house. On the lawn he passed the young people, intent upon their own pursuits. He was glad that none of them noticed him and meeting Stryker, who was hovering around the lower hall, he sent his name up to his employer.

"I don't think Mr. McGuire expects you just yet, sir," said the man.

"Nevertheless, tell him I must see him," said Peter. "It's important."

Though it was nearly two o'clock, McGuire was not yet dressed and his looks when Peter was admitted to him bespoke a long night of anxiety and vigil. Wearing an incongruous flowered dressing gown tied at the waist with a silken cord, he turned to the visitor.

"Well," he said rather peevishly.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. McGuire, but something has happened that I thought——"

"What's happened?" the other man snapped out, eying the roll of cardboard in Peter's hand. "What——?" he gasped.

Peter smiled and shrugged coolly.

"It may be only a joke, sir—and I hardly know whether I'm even justified in calling it to your attention, but I found this placard nailed to a tree near the path to the Cabin."

"Placard!" said McGuire, his sharp glance noting the printing of the trespass sign. "Of course—that's the usual warning——"

"It's the other side," said Peter, "that is unusual." And unrolling it carefully, he laid it flat on the table beside his employer's breakfast tray and then stood back to note the effect of the disclosure.

McGuire stared at the headline, starting violently, and then, as though fascinated, read the scrawl through to the end. Peter could not see his face, but the back of his neck, the ragged fringe of moist hair around his bald spot were eloquent enough. And the hands which held the extraordinary document were far from steady. The gay flowers of the dressing gown mocked the pitiable figure it concealed, which seemed suddenly to sag into its chair. Peter waited. For a long while the dressing gown was dumb and then as though its occupant were slowly awakening to the thought that something was required of him it stirred and turned slowly in the chair.

"You—you've read this?" asked McGuire weakly.

"Yes, sir. It was there to read. It was merely stuck on a tree with this hasp-knife," and Peter produced the implement and handed it to McGuire.

McGuire took the knife—twisting it slowly over in his fingers. "A hasp-knife," he repeated dully.

"I thought it best to bring them to you," said Peter, "especially on account of——"

"Yes, yes. Of course." He was staring at the red crayon scrawl and as he said nothing more Peter turned toward the door, where Stryker stood on guard.

"If there's nothing else just now, I'll——"

"Wait!" uttered the old man, and Peter paused. And then, "Did any one else see this—this paper?"

"Yes—Mrs. Bergen's niece—she saw it first."

"My housekeeper's niece. Any one else?"

"I don't know. I hardly think so. It seemed quite freshly written."

"Ah——" muttered McGuire. He was now regarding Peter intently. "Where—where is the tree on which you found it?"

"A maple—just in the wood—at the foot of the lawn."

"Ah!" He stumbled to the window, the placard still clutched in his hands, and peered at the woods as though seeking to pick out the single tree marked for his exacerbation. Then jerked himself around and faced the bearer of these tidings, glaring at him as though he were the author of them.

"G—— d—— you all!" he swore in a stifled tone.

"I beg pardon," said Peter with sharp politeness.

McGuire glanced at Peter and fell heavily into the nearest armchair. "It can't—be done," he muttered, half to himself, and then another oath. He was showing his early breeding now.

"I might 'a' known——," he said aloud, staring at the paper.

"Then it isn't a joke?" asked Peter, risking the question.

"Joke!" roared McGuire. And then more quietly, "A joke? I don't want it talked about," he muttered with a senile smile. And then, "You say a woman read it?"

"Yes."

"She must be kept quiet. I can't have all the neighborhood into my affairs."

"I think that can be managed. I'll speak to her. In the meanwhile if there's anything I can do——"

McGuire looked up at Peter and their glances met. McGuire's glance wavered and then came back to Peter's face. What he found there seemed to satisfy him for he turned to Stryker, who had been listening intently.

"You may go, Stryker," he commanded. "Shut the door, but stay within call."

The valet's face showed surprise and some disappointment, but he merely bowed his head and obeyed.

"I suppose you're—you're curious about this message, Nichols—coming in such a way," said McGuire, after a pause.

"To tell the truth, I am, sir," replied Peter. "We've done all we could to protect you. This 'Hawk' must be the devil himself."

"He is," repeated McGuire. "Hell's breed. The thing can't go on. I've got to put a stop to it—and to him."

"He speaks of coming again Friday night——"

"Yes—yes—Friday." And then, his fingers trembling along the placard, "I've got to do what he wants—this time—just this time——"

McGuire was gasping out the phrases as though each of them was wrenched from his throat. And then, with an effort at self-control,

"Sit down, Nichols," he muttered. "Since you've seen this, I—I'll have to tell you more. I—I think—I'll need you—to help me."

Peter obeyed, flattered by his employer's manner and curious as to the imminent revelations.

"I may say that—this—this 'Hawk' is a—an enemy of mine, Nichols—a bitter enemy—unscrupulous—a man better dead than alive. I—I wish to God you'd shot him last night."

"Sorry, sir," said Peter cheerfully.

"I—I've got to do what he wants—this time. I can't have this sort of thing goin' on—with everybody in Black Rock reading these damn things. You're sure my daughter Peggy knows nothing?"

"I'd be pretty sure of that——"

"But she might—any time—if he puts up more placards. I've got to stop that, Nichols. This thing mustn't go any further."

"I think you may trust me."

"Yes. I think I can. I've got to trust you now, whether I want to or no. The man who wrote this scrawl is the man I came down here to get away from." Peter waited while McGuire paused. "You may think it's very strange. It is strange. I knew this man—called 'Hawk,' many years ago. I—I thought he was dead, but he's come back."

McGuire paused again, the placard in his hands, reading the line which so clearly announced that fact.

"He speaks of something I've got—something he's got, Nichols. It's a paper—a—er—a partnership paper we drew up years ago—out West and signed. That paper is of great value to me. As long as he holds it I——," McGuire halted to wipe the sweat from his pallid brow. "He holds it as a—well—not exactly as a threat—but as a kind of menace to my happiness and Peggy's."

"I understand, sir," put in Peter quietly. "Blackmail, in short."

"Exactly—er—blackmail. He wanted five thousand dollars—in New York. I refused him—there's no end to blackmail once you yield—and I came down here—but he followed me. But I've got to get that paper away from him."

"If you were sure he had it with him——"

"That's just it. He's too smart for that. He's got it hidden somewhere. I've got to get this money for him—from New York—I haven't got it in the house—before Friday night——"

"But blackmail——!"

"I've got to, Nichols—this time. I've got to."

"I wouldn't, sir," said Peter stoutly.

"But you don't know everything. I've only told you part," said McGuire, almost whining. "This is no ordinary case—no ordinary blackmail. I've got to be quick. I'm going to get the money—I'm going to get you to go to New York and get it."

"Me!"

"Yes. Yes. This is Wednesday. I can't take any chances of not having it here Friday. Peggy is going back this afternoon. I'll get her to drive you up. I'll 'phone Sheldon to expect you—he'll give you the money and you can come back to-morrow."

"But to-night——"

"He knows the danger of trying to reach me. That's why he wrote this. I won't be bothered to-night. I'll shut the house tight and put some of the men inside. If he comes, we'll shoot."

"But Friday——Do you mean, sir, that you'll go out to him with five thousand dollars and risk——"

"No, I won't. You will," said McGuire, watching Peter's face craftily.

"Oh, I see," replied Peter, aware that he was being drawn more deeply into the plot than he had wished. "You want me to meet him."

McGuire noted Peter's dubious tone and at once got up and laid his hands upon his shoulders.

"You'll do this for me, won't you, Nichols? I don't want to see this man. I can't explain. There wouldn't be any danger. He hasn't anything against you. Why should he have? I haven't any one else that I can trust—but Stryker. And Stryker—well—I'd have to tell Stryker. You know already. Don't say you refuse. It's—it's a proof of my confidence. You're just the man I want here. I'll make it worth your while to stay with me—well worth your while."

Peter was conscious of a feeling partly of pity, partly of contempt, for the cringing creature pawing at his shoulders. Peter had never liked to be pawed. It had always rubbed him the wrong way. But McGuire's need was great and pity won.

"Oh, I'll do it if you like," he said, turning aside and releasing himself from the clinging fingers, "provided I assume no responsibility——"

"That's it. No responsibility," said McGuire, in a tone of relief. "You'll just take that money out—then come away——"

"And get nothing in return?" asked Peter in surprise. "No paper—no receipt——?"

"No—just this once, Nichols. It will keep him quiet for a month or so. In the meanwhile——" The old man paused, a crafty look in his eyes, "In the meanwhile we'll have time to devise a way to meet this situation."

"Meaning—precisely what?" asked Peter keenly.

McGuire scowled at him and then turned away toward the window.

"That needn't be your affair."

"It won't be," said Peter quickly. "I'd like you to remember that I came here as a forester and superintendent. I agreed also to guard your house and yourself from intrusion, but if it comes to the point of——"

"There, there, Nichols," croaked McGuire, "don't fly off the handle. We'll just cross this bridge first. I—I won't ask you to do anything a—a gentleman shouldn't."

"Oh, well, sir," said Peter finally, "that's fair enough."

McGuire came over and faced Peter, his watery eyes seeking Peter's.

"You'll swear, Nichols, to say nothing of this to any one?"

"Yes. I'll keep silent."

"Nothing to Sheldon?"

"No."

"And you'll see this—this niece of the housekeeper's?"

"Yes."

The man gave a gasp of relief and sank into his chair.

"Now go, Nichols—and shift your clothes. Peggy's going about four. Come back here and I'll give you a letter and a check."

Peter nodded and reached the door. As he opened it, Stryker straightened and bowed uncomfortably. But Peter knew that he had been listening at the keyhole.



CHAPTER IX

SHAD IS UNPLEASANT

Peter returned from New York on Thursday night, having accomplished his curious mission. He had first intercepted Beth on her way to the kitchen and sworn her to secrecy, advising her to say nothing to Mrs. Bergen about the events of the previous night. And she had agreed to respect his wishes. On the way to New York he had sat in the rumble of the low red runabout, Miss Peggy McGuire at the wheel, driving the fashionable Freddy. Miss McGuire after having yielded, the night before, to the musical predilections of Miss Delaplane, had apparently reconsidered Peter's social status and had waved him to the seat in the rear with a mere gesture and without apologies. And Peter, biting back a grin and touching his hat, had obeyed. The familiarities tolerable in such a wilderness as Black Rock could not of course be considered in the halls of the fashionable hotel where Miss Peggy lived in New York, and where by dint of great care and exclusiveness she had caught a hold of the fringe of society. But Peter sat up very straight, trying not to hear what was said in front. If he could only have worn his Colonel's uniform and decorations, or his Grand Ducal coronet, and have folded his arms, the irony would have been perfection.

He had gone to Sheldon, Senior, in the morning and in return for McGuire's check had been given cash in the shape of ten virginal five hundred dollar bills. This money had been put into an envelope and was now folded carefully in Peter's inside pocket. Sheldon, Senior, to be sure, had asked questions, but with a good grace Peter had evaded him. Dick Sheldon was out of town, so Peter put in the remaining period before his train-time in a music store where he spent all the money that remained of his salary, on books, a few for the piano but most of them for Beth. Peter had wasted, as he had thought, two perfectly good years in trying to learn to sing. But those two years were not going to be wasted now—for Beth was to be his mouthpiece. He knew the beginnings of a training—how to give her the advantage of the instruction he had received from one of the best teachers in Milan. He was lucky enough to find books on the Italian method of voice production and on the way back to McGuire's, armed with these, he stopped off at the Bergen house in Black Rock village and returned Beth's call.

There he found Shad Wells, in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a pipe in the portico, and looking like a thundercloud. In response to Peter's query, he moved his right shoulder half an inch in the direction of the door, and then spat in the geranium bed. So Peter knocked at the door, softly at first, then loudly, when Beth emerged, her sleeves rolled to her shoulders and her arms covered with soapsuds.

"Why, Shad," she said witheringly, after she had greeted Peter, "you might have let me know! Come in, Mr. Nichols. Excuse my appearance. Wash-day," she explained, as he followed her into the dark interior.

"I can't stop," said the visitor, "I just came to bring these books——"

"For me!" she exclaimed, hurriedly wiping her arms on her apron.

"I got them in New York——"

She pulled up the shade at the side, letting in the sunlight, an act permissible in the parlors of Black Rock only on state occasions, for the sunlight (as every one knew) was not kind to plush-covered furniture.

"For me!" Beth repeated softly. "I didn't think you meant it."

"Tone production—Exercises," explained Peter, "and here's one on The Lives of the Great Composers. I thought you might be interested in reading it."

"Oh, yes. I am—I will be. Thank you ever so much——"

"Of course you can't do much by yourself just yet—not without a piano—to get the pitch—the key—but I've brought a tuning fork and——"

"But I've got the harmonium——," Beth broke in excitedly. "It's a little out of tune, but——"

"The harmonium!" asked the bewildered Peter. "What's that?"

Beth proudly indicated a piece of furniture made of curly walnut which stood in the corner of the room. There were several books on the top of it—Gospel Tunes—Moody and Sankey, a Methodist Episcopal hymn book, and a glass case containing wax flowers.

"We play it Sundays——," said Beth, "but it ought to help——"

"You play——!" he said in surprise.

"Aunt Tillie and I—oh, just hymns——." She sat, while Peter watched, began pumping vigorously with her feet and presently the instrument emitted a doleful sound. "It has notes anyhow," said Beth with a laugh.

"Splendid!" said Peter. "And when I've told you what to do you can practice here. You'll come soon?"

She nodded. "When?"

"To-morrow—sometime?" And then, "What's the matter with Wells?" he asked.

She frowned. "He just asked me to marry him. It's the twenty-seventh time."

"Oh——"

"I can't be botherin' with Shad—not on wash-day—or any other day," she added as though in an afterthought.

Peter laughed. He was quite sure that nobody would ever make her do anything she didn't want to do.

"He knows I was at the Cabin yesterday," she said in a low voice. "He was watchin'."

Peter was silent a moment, glancing at the books he had just brought her.

"Of course if he has any claim on you, perhaps——," he began, when she broke in.

"Claim! He hasn't," she gasped. "I'll do as I please. And he'd better quit pesterin' me or I'll——"

"What?"

She laughed.

"I'll put him through the clothes-wringer."

Peter grinned. "He almost looks as though you'd done that already."

And as she followed him to the door, "I thought I ought to tell you about Shad. When he gets ugly—he's ugly an' no mistake."

"Do you still think he'll—er—swallow me at one gobble?" he asked.

She stared at him a moment and then laughed with a full throat. "I hope he don't—at least not 'til I've had my singin' lessons."

"I think I can promise you that," said Peter.

She followed him out to the porch, where they looked about for Shad. He had disappeared. And in the "Lizzie," which had been panting by the side of the road, Peter was conducted by the soiled young man at the wheel to Black Rock House.

Nothing unusual had happened in his absence, nor had any other message or warning been posted, for Stryker, released for this duty, had searched all the morning and found nothing. "Hawk" was waiting, biding his hour.

Curiously enough, an astonishing calm seemed to have fallen over the person of Jonathan K. McGuire. When Peter arrived he found his employer seated on the portico in a wicker chair, smoking his after-supper cigar. True, the day guards were posted near by and Stryker hovered as was his wont, but the change in his employer's demeanor was so apparent that Peter wondered how such a stolid-looking creature could ever have lost his self-control. It was difficult to understand this metamorphosis unless it could be that, having come to a decision and aware of the prospect of immunity, if only a temporary one, McGuire had settled down to make the best of a bad job and await with stoicism whatever the future was to bring. This was Peter's first impression, nothing else suggesting itself, but when he followed the old man up to his room and gave him the money he had brought he noted the deeply etched lines at nostril and jaw and felt rather than saw the meaning of them—that Jonathan McGuire was in the grip of some deep and sinister resolution. There was a quality of desperation in his calmness, a studied indifference to the dangers which the night before last had seemed so appalling.

He put the money in the safe, carefully locked the combination and then turned into the room again.

"Thanks, Nichols," he said. "You'd better have some supper and get to bed to-night. I don't think you'll be needed." And then, as Peter's look showed his surprise, "I know my man better than you do. To-morrow night we shall see."

He closed his lips into a thin line, shot out his jaw and lowered his brows unpleasantly. Courage of a sort had come back to him, the courage of the animal at bay, which fights against the inevitable.

To Peter the time seemed propitious to state the need for the observation towers and he explained in detail his projects. But McGuire listened and when Peter had finished speaking merely shook his head.

"What you say is quite true. The towers must be built. I've thought so for a long time. In a few days we will speak of that again—after to-morrow night," he finished significantly.

"As you please," said Peter, "but every day lost now may——"

"We'll gain these days later," he broke in abruptly. "I want you to stay around here now."

On Friday morning he insisted on having Peter show him the tree where the placard had been discovered, and Peter, having taken lunch with him, led him down to the big sugar maple, off the path to the cabin. Peter saw that he scanned the woods narrowly and walked with a hand in his waist-band, which Peter knew held an Army Colt revolver, but the whine was gone from his voice, the trembling from his hands. He walked around the maple with Peter, regarding it with a sort of morbid abstraction and then himself led the way to the path and to the house. Why he wanted to look at the tree was more than Peter could understand, for it was Peter, and not he, who was to keep this costly assignation.

"You understand, Nichols," he said when they reached the portico, "you've agreed to go—to-night—at eleven."

"I wish you'd let me meet him—without the money."

"No—no. I've made up my mind——," gasped McGuire with a touch of his old alarm, "there can't be any change in the plan—no change at all."

"Oh, very well," said Peter, "it's not my money I'm giving away."

"It won't matter, Nichols. I—I've got a lot more——"

"But the principle——" protested Peter.

"To H—— with the principle," growled the old man.

Peter turned and went back to the Cabin, somewhat disgusted with his whole undertaking. Already he had been here for five days and, except for two walks through the woods for purposes of investigation, nothing that he had come to do had been accomplished. He had not yet even visited the sawmills which were down on the corduroy road five miles away. So far as he could see, for the present he was merely McGuire's handy man, a kind of upper servant and messenger, whose duties could have been performed as capably by Stryker or Shad Wells, or even Jesse Brown. The forest called him. It needed him. From what he had heard he knew that down by the sawmills they were daily cutting the wrong trees. He had already sent some instructions to the foreman there, but he could not be sure that his orders had been obeyed. He knew that he ought to spend the day there, making friends with the men and explaining the reasons for the change in orders, but as long as McGuire wanted him within telephone range, there was nothing to do but to obey.

He reached the Cabin, threw off his coat, and had hardly settled down at the table to finish his drawing, a plan of the observation towers, when Beth appeared. He rose and greeted her. Her face was flushed, for she had been running.

"Has Shad been here?" she asked breathlessly.

"No."

"Oh!" she gasped. "I was afraid he'd get here before me. I took the short cut through the woods."

"What's the matter?"

"He said he—he was going to break you to bits——"

"To bits! Me? Why?"

"Because he—he says I oughtn't to come here——"

"Oh, I see," he muttered, and then, with a grin, "and what do you think about it, Beth?"

"I'll do what I please," she said. "So long as I think it's all right. What business has he got to stop me!"

Peter laughed. "Don't let's bother then. Did you bring your books?"

She hadn't brought them. She had come in such a hurry.

"But aren't you afraid—when he comes?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Peter. "Do you think I ought to be?"

"Well, Shad's—he's what they call a Hellion around here."

"What's a—er—Hellion?"

"A—a scrapper."

"Oh, a fighting man?"

"Yes."

Peter sat down at the piano and struck loudly some strident discords in the bass. "Like this!" he laughed. "Isn't it ugly, Beth—that's what fighting is—I had it day and night for years. If Shad had been in the war he wouldn't ever want to fight again."

"Were you in the war?" asked Beth in amazement.

"Of course. Where would I have been?" And before she could reply he had swept into the rumbling bass of the "Revolutionary Etude." She sank into a chair and sat silent, listening, at first watching the door, and then as the soul of the artist within her awoke she forgot everything but the music.

There was a long silence at the end when Peter paused, and then he heard her voice, tense, suppressed.

"I could see it—you made me see it!" she gasped, almost in a whisper. "War—revolution—the people—angry—mumbling—crowding, pushing ... a crowd with guns and sticks howling at a gate ... and then a man trying to speak to them—appealing——"

Peter turned quickly at the words and faced her. Her eyes were like stars, her soul rapt in the vision his music had painted. Peter had lived that scene again and again, but how could Beth know unless he had made her see it? There was something strange—uncanny—in Beth's vision of the great drama of Peter's life. And yet she had seen. Even now her spirit was afar.

"And what happened to the man who was appealing to them?" he asked soberly.

She closed her eyes, then opened them toward him, shaking her head. "I—I don't know—it's all gone now."

"But you saw what I played. That is what happened."

"What do you mean?" She questioned, startled in her turn.

Peter shrugged himself into the present moment. "Nothing. It's just—revolution. War. War is like that, Beth," he went on quietly after a moment. "Like the motif in the bass—there is no end—the threat of it never stops—day or night. Only hell could be like it."

Beth slowly came out of her dream.

"You fought?" she asked.

"Oh, yes."

Another silence. "I—I think I understand now why you're not afraid."

"But I am afraid, Beth," he said with a smile. "I was always afraid in the war. Because Death is always waiting just around the corner. Nobody who has been in the war wants ever to fight again."

He turned to the piano. "They all want happiness, Beth. Peace. This!" he finished, and his roving fingers played softly the Tschaikowsky "Reverie."

When he had finished he turned to her, smiling.

"What vision do you see in that, Beth?"

She started as though from a dream. "Oh, happiness—and sadness, too."

"Yes," said Peter soberly. "No one knows what it is to be happy unless one has been sad."

"That's true, isn't it?" she muttered, looking at him in wonder. "I never knew what unhappiness was for—but I guess that's it."

He caught the minor note in her voice and smiled.

"Come now," he said, "we'll have our first lesson."

"Without the books?"

"Yes. We'll try breathing."

"Breathing?"

"Yes—from the diaphragm."

And as she looked bewildered, "From the stomach—not from the chest—breathe deeply and say 'Ah.'"

She obeyed him and did it naturally, as though she had never breathed in any other way.

"Fine," he cried and touched a note on the piano. "Now sing it. Throw it forward. Softly first, then louder——"

It was while she was carrying out this instruction that a shadow appeared on the doorsill, followed in a moment by the figure of Shad Wells. Beth's "Ah" ceased suddenly. The visitor stood outside, his hands on his hips, in silent rage.

Peter merely glanced at him over his shoulder.

"How are you, Wells?" he said politely. "Won't you come in? We've having a singing lesson."

Shad did not move or speak as Peter went on, "Take the chair by the door, old man. The cigarettes are on the table. Now, Beth——"

But Beth remained as she was, uneasily regarding the intruder, for she knew that Shad was there for no good purpose. Peter caught her look and turned toward the door, deliberately ignoring the man's threatening demeanor.

"We won't be long," he began coolly, "not over half an hour——"

"No, I know ye won't," growled Shad. And then to the girl, "Beth, come out o' there!"

If Shad's appearance had caused Beth any uncertainty, she found her spirit now, for her eyes flashed and her mouth closed in a hard line.

"Who are you to say where I come or go?" she said evenly.

But Shad stood his ground.

"If you don't know enough to know what's what I'm here to show you."

"Oh, I say——," said Peter coolly.

"You can say what you like, Mister. And I've got somethin' to say to you when this lady goes."

"Oh,——" and then quietly to Beth, "Perhaps you'd better go. Bring the books to-morrow—at the same time."

But Beth hadn't moved, and only looked at Peter appealingly. So Peter spoke.

"This man is impolite, not to say disagreeable to you. Has he any right to speak to you like this?"

"No," said Beth uneasily, "but I don't want any trouble."

Peter walked to the door and faced Shad outside.

"There won't be any trouble unless Wells makes it." And then, as if a new thought had come to him, he said more cheerfully, "Perhaps he doesn't quite understand——"

"Oh, I understand, all right. Are you goin', Beth?"

She glanced at Peter, who nodded toward the path, and she came between them.

"Go on back, Shad," she said.

"No."

"Do you mean it? If you do I'm through with you. You understand?"

Peter took the girl by the arm and led her gently away.

"Just wait a minute, Wells," he flung over his shoulder at the man, "I'll be back in a second."

The careless tone rather bewildered the woodsman, who had expected to find either fear or anger. The forester-piano-player showed neither—only careless ease and a coolness which could only be because he didn't know what was coming to him.

"D—n him! I'll fix him!" muttered Shad, quivering with rage. But Peter having fortified himself with a cigarette was now returning. Wells advanced into an open space where there was plenty of room to swing his elbows and waited.

"Now, Wells," said Peter alertly, "you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I did, ye stuck-up piano-playin', psalm-singin' —— —— —— ——." And suiting the action to the word leaped for Peter, both fists flying.

The rugged and uncultured often mistake politeness for effeminacy, sensibility for weakness. Shad was a rough and tumble artist of a high proficiency, and he had a reputation for strength and combativeness. He was going to make short work of this job.

But Peter had learned his boxing with his cricket. Also he had practiced the Savate and was familiar with jiu jitsu—but he didn't need either of them.

Wells rushed twice but Peter was not where he rushed. The only damage he had done was to tear out the sleeve of Peter's shirt.

"Stand up an' fight like a man," growled Shad.

"There's no hurry," said Peter, calmly studying Shad's methods.

"Oh, ain't there!"

This bull-like rush Peter stopped with a neat uppercut, straightening Shad's head which came up with a disfigured nose and before he could throw down his guard, Peter landed hard on his midriff. Shad winced but shot out a blow which grazed Peter's cheek. Then Peter countered on Shad's injured nose. Shad's eyes were now regarding Peter in astonishment. But in a moment only one of them was, for Peter closed the other.

"We'd better stop now," gasped Peter, "and talk this over."

"No, you —— —— ——," roared Shad, for he suspected that somewhere in the bushes Beth was watching.

Peter lost what remained of his shirt in the next rush and sprained a thumb. It didn't do to fight Shad "rough and tumble." But he got away at last and stood his man off, avoiding the blind rushes and landing almost at will.

"Had enough?" he asked again, as politely as ever.

"No," gulped the other.

So Peter sprang in and struck with all the force of his uninjured hand on the woodsman's jaw, and then Shad went down and lay quiet. It had been ridiculously easy from the first and Peter felt some pity for Shad and not a little contempt for himself. But he took the precaution of bending over the man and extracting the revolver that he found in Shad's hip pocket.

As he straightened and turned he saw Beth standing in the path regarding him.

"Beth!" he exclaimed with a glance at Shad. "You saw?"

"Yes." She covered her face with her hands. "It was horrible."

"I tried to avoid it," he protested.

"Yes, I know. It was his own fault. Is he badly hurt?"

"No, I think not. But you'd better go."

"Why?"

"It will only make matters worse if he sees you."

She understood, turned and vanished obediently.

Then Peter went to the house, got a basin and, fetching some water from the creek, played the Samaritan. In a while Shad gasped painfully and sat up, looking at the victor.

"Sorry," said Peter, "but you would have it."

Shad blinked his uninjured eye and rose, feeling at his hip.

"I took your revolver," said Peter calmly.

"Give it here."

"A chap with a bad temper has no business carrying one," said Peter sternly.

"Oh——." The man managed to get to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Shad," said Peter again, and held out his hand. "Let's be friends."

Shad looked at the hand sullenly for a moment. "I'll fix you, Mister. I'll fix you yet," he muttered, then turned and walked away.

If Peter had made one friend he had also made an enemy.

The incident with Shad Wells was unfortunate, but Peter didn't see how it could have been avoided. He was thankful nevertheless for his English schooling, which had saved him from a defeat at the hands of a "roughneck" which could have been, under the circumstances, nothing less than ignominious. For if Shad Wells had succeeded in vanquishing him, all Peter's authority, all his influence with the rest of the men in McGuire's employ would have gone forever, for Shad Wells was not the kind of man upon whom such a victory would have lightly sat. If he had thrashed Peter, Shad and not Peter would have been the boss of Black Rock and Peter's position would have been intolerable.

As Peter laved his broken knuckles and bruised cheek, he wondered if, after all, the affair hadn't been for the best. True, he had made an enemy of Shad, but then according to the girl, Shad had already been his enemy. Peter abhorred fighting, as he had told Beth, but, whatever the consequences, he was sure that the air had cleared amazingly. He was aware too that the fact that he had been the champion of Beth's independence definitely stood forth. Whatever the wisdom or the propriety, according to the standards of Black Rock society, of Beth's visits to the Cabin, for the purpose of a musical education or for any other purposes, Peter was aware that he had set the seal of his approval upon them, marked, that any who read might run, upon the visage of Mr. Wells. Peter was still sorry for Shad, but still more sorry for Beth, whose name might be lightly used for her share in the adventure.

He made up his mind to say nothing of what had happened, and he felt reasonably certain that Shad Wells would reach a similar decision. He was not at all certain that Beth wouldn't tell everybody what had happened for he was aware by this time that Beth was the custodian of her own destinies and that she would not need the oracles of Black Rock village as censors of her behavior.

But when he went up to the house for supper he made his way over the log-jam below the pool and so to the village, stopping for a moment at the Bergen house, where Beth was sitting on the porch reading The Lives of the Great Composers. She was so absorbed that she did not see him until he stood at the little swing gate, hat in hand.

She greeted him quietly, glancing up at his bruised cheek.

"I'm so sorry," she said, "that it was on my account."

"I'm not—now that I've done the 'gobbling,'" he said with a grin. And then, "Where's Shad?"

"I haven't seen him. I guess he's gone in his hole and pulled it in after him."

Peter smiled. "I just stopped by to say that perhaps you'd better say nothing. It would only humiliate him."

"I wasn't goin' to—but it served him right——"

"And if you think people will talk about your coming to the Cabin, I thought perhaps I ought to give you your lessons here."

"Here!" she said, and he didn't miss the note of disappointment in her tone.

"If your cousin Shad disapproves, perhaps there are others."

She was silent for a moment and then she looked up at him shyly.

"If it's just the same to you—I—I'd rather come to the Cabin," she said quietly. "It's like—like a different world—with your playin' an' all——" And then scornfully, "What do I care what they think!"

"Of course—I'm delighted. I thought I ought to consult you, that's all. And you'll come to-morrow?"

"Yes—of course."

He said nothing about the meeting that was to take place that night with the mysterious "Hawk" at the maple tree. He meant to find out, if possible, how Beth could be concerned (if she was concerned) in the fortunes of the mysterious gentleman of the placard, but until he learned something definite he thought it wiser not to take Beth further into his confidence.



CHAPTER X

"HAWK"

Three months ago it would have been difficult for His Highness, Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch, to imagine himself in his present situation as sponsor for Beth Cameron. He had been no saint. Saintly attributes were not usually to be found in young men of his class, and Peter's training had been in the larger school of the world as represented in the Continental capitals. He had tasted life under the tutelage of a father who believed that women, bad as well as good, were a necessary part of a gentleman's education, and Peter had learned many things.... Had it not been for his music and his English love of fair play, he would have stood an excellent chance of going to the devil along the precipitous road that had led the Grand Duke Nicholas Petrovitch there.

But Peter had discovered that he had a mind, the needs of which were more urgent than those of his love of pleasure. Many women he had known, Parisian, Viennese, Russian—and one, Vera Davydov, a musician, had enchained him until he had discovered that it was her violin and not her soul that had sung to him ... Anastasie Galitzin ... a dancer in Moscow ... and then—the War.

In that terrible alembic the spiritual ingredients which made Peter's soul had been stirred until only the essential remained. But that essence was the real Peter—a wholesome young man steeped in idealism slightly tinged with humor. It was idealism that had made him attempt the impossible, humor that had permitted him to survive his failure, for no tragedy except death itself can defy a sense of humor if it's whimsical enough. There was something about the irony of his position in Black Rock which interested him even more than the drama that lay hidden with McGuire's Nemesis in the pine woods. And he couldn't deny the fact that this rustic, this primitive Beth Cameron was as fine a little lady as one might meet anywhere in the wide world. She had amused him at first with originality, charmed him with simplicity, amazed him later with talent and now had disarmed him with trust in his integrity. If at any moment the idea had entered Peter's head that here was a wild-flower waiting to be gathered and worn in his hat, she had quickly disabused his mind of that chimera. Curious. He found it as difficult to conceive of making free with Beth as with the person of the Metropolitan of Moscow, or with that of the President of the Pennsylvania Railroad. She had her dignity. It was undeniable. He imagined the surprise in her large blue eyes and the torrent of ridicule of which her tongue could be capable. He had felt the sting of its humor at their first meeting. He had no wish to test it again.

And now, after a few days of acquaintanceship, he found himself Beth's champion, the victor over the "Hellion" triplet, and the guardian of her good repute. He found, strangely enough, the responsibility strengthening his good resolves toward Beth and adding another tie to those of sympathy and admiration. The situation, while not altogether of his making, was not without its attractions. He had given Beth her chance to withdraw from the arrangement and she had persisted in the plan to come to the Cabin. Very well. It was his cabin. She should come and he would teach her to sing. But he knew that Peter Nichols was throwing temptation in the way of Peter Nicholaevitch.

* * * * *

McGuire was quiet that night and while they smoked Peter talked at length on the needs of the estate as he saw them. Peter went down to the Cabin and brought up his maps and his plans for the fire towers. McGuire nodded or assented in monosyllables, but Peter was sure that he heard little and saw less, for at intervals he glanced at the clock, or at his watch, and Peter knew that his obsession had returned. Outside, somewhere in the woods, "Hawk" was approaching to keep his tryst and McGuire could think of nothing else. This preoccupation was marked by a frowning thatch of brow and a sullen glare at vacancy which gave no evidence of the fears that had inspired him, but indicated a mind made up in desperation to carry out his plans, through Peter, whatever happened later. Only the present concerned him. But underneath his outward appearance of calm, Peter was aware of an intense alertness, for from time to time his eyes glowed suddenly and the muscles worked in his cheeks as he clamped his jaws shut and held them so.

As the clock struck ten McGuire got to his feet and walked to the safe, which he opened carefully and took out the money that Peter had brought. Then he went to a closet and took out an electric torch which he tested and then put upon the table.

"You're armed, Nichols?" he asked.

Peter nodded. "But of course there's no reason why your mysterious visitor should take a pot at me," he said. And then, curiously, "Do you think so, Mr. McGuire?"

"Oh, no," said the other quickly. "You have no interest in this affair. You're my messenger, that's all. But I want you to follow my instructions carefully. I've trusted you this far and I've got to go the whole way. This man will say something. You will try to remember word for word what he says to you, and you're to repeat that message to me."

"That shouldn't be difficult."

McGuire was holding the money in his hand and went on in an abstraction as though weighing words.

"I want you to go at once to the maple tree. I want you to go now so that you will be there when this man arrives. You will stand waiting for him and when he comes you will throw the light into his face, so that you can see him when you talk to him, and so that he can count this money and see that the amount is correct. I do not want you to go too close to him nor to permit him to go too close to you—you are merely to hand him this package and throw the light while he counts the money. Then you are to say to him these words, 'Don't forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy.'"

"'Don't forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy,'" murmured Peter in amazement. And then, "But suppose he wants to tell me a lot of things you don't want me to know——"

"I'll have to risk that," put in McGuire grimly. "I want you to watch him carefully, Nichols. Are you pretty quick on the draw?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, can you draw your gun and shoot quickly—surely? If you can't, you'd better have your gun in your pocket, keep him covered and at the first sign, shoot through your coat."

Peter took out his revolver and examined it quizzically. "I thought you said, Mr. McGuire," he put in coolly, "that I was not to be required to do anything a gentleman couldn't do."

"Exactly," said the old man jerkily.

"I shouldn't say that shooting a defenseless man answers that requirement."

McGuire threw up his hands wildly.

"There you go—up in the air again. I didn't say you were to shoot him, did I?" he whined. "I'm just warning you to be on the lookout in case he attacks you. That—that's all."

"Why should he attack me?"

"He shouldn't, but he might be angry because I didn't come myself."

"I see. Perhaps you'd better go, sir. Then you can do your killing yourself."

McGuire fell back against the table, to which he clung, his face gray with apprehension, for he saw that Peter had guessed what he hoped.

"You want this man killed," Peter went on. "It's been obvious to me from the first night I came here. Well, I'm not going to be the one to do it."

McGuire's glance fell to the rug as he stammered hoarsely, "I—I never asked you to do it. Y-you must be dreaming. I—I'm merely making plans to assure your safety. I don't want you hurt, Nichols. That's all. You're not going to back out now?" he pleaded.

"Murder is a little out of my line——"

"You're not going to fail me——?" McGuire's face was ghastly. "You can't," he whispered hoarsely. "You can't let me down now. I can't see this man. I can't tell Stryker all you know. You're the only one. You promised, Nichols. You promised to go."

"Yes. And I'll keep my word—but I'll do it in my own way. I'm not afraid of any enemy of yours. Why should I be? But I'm not going to shoot him. If that's understood give me the money and I'll be off."

"Yes—yes. That's all right, Nichols. You're a good fellow—and honest. I'll make it worth your while to stay with me here." He took up the money and handed it to Peter, who counted it carefully and then put it in an inside pocket. "I don't see why you think I wanted you to kill Hawk Kennedy," McGuire went on, whining. "A man's got a right to protect himself, hasn't he? And you've got a right to protect yourself, if he tries to start anything."

"Have you any reason to believe that he might?"

"No. I can't say I have."

"All right. I'll take a chance. But I want it understood that I'm not responsible if anything goes wrong."

"That's understood."

Peter made his way downstairs, and out of the front door to the portico. Stryker, curiously enough, was nowhere to be seen. Peter went out across the dim lawn into the starlight. Jesse Brown challenged him by the big tree and Peter stopped for a moment to talk with him, explaining that he would be returning to the house later.

"The old man seems to be comin' to life, Mister," said Jesse.

"What do you mean?"

"Not so skeered-like. He was out here when you went to the Cabin for them plans——"

"Out here?" said Peter in amazement.

Andy nodded. "He seemed more natural-like,—asked what the countersign was and said mebbe we'd all be goin' back to the mills after a night or so."

"Oh, did he? That's good. You're pretty tired of this night work?"

"Not so long as it pays good. But what did he mean by changin' the guards?"

"He didn't say anything to me about it," said Peter, concealing his surprise.

"Oh, didn't he? Well, he took Andy off the privet hedge and sent him down to the clump of pines near the road."

"I see," said Peter. "Why?"

"You've got me, Mister. If there's trouble to-night, there ain't no one at the back of the house at all. We're one man short."

"Who?"

"Shad Wells. He ain't showed up."

"Ah, I see," muttered Peter. And then, as he lighted a cigarette, "Oh, well, we'll get along somehow. But look sharp, just the same."

Peter went down the lawn thoughtfully. From the first he hadn't been any too pleased with this mission. Though Peter was aware that in the realm of big business it masqueraded under other names, blackmail, at the best, was a dirty thing. At the worst—and McGuire's affair with the insistent Hawk seemed to fall into this classification,—it was both sinister and contemptible. To be concerned in these dark doings even as an emissary was hardly in accordance with Peter's notion of his job, and he had acceded to McGuire's request without thinking of possible consequences, more out of pity for his employer in his plight than for any other reason. But he remembered that it usually required a guilty conscience to make blackmail possible and that the man who paid always paid because of something discreditable which he wished to conceal.

McGuire's explanations had been thin and Peter knew that the real reason for the old man's trepidations was something other than the ones he had given. He had come to Black Rock from New York to avoid any possible publicity that might result from the visits of his persecutor and was now paying this sum of money for a respite, an immunity which at the best could only be temporary. It was all wrong and Peter was sorry to have a hand in it, but he couldn't deny that the interest with which he had first approached Black Rock House had now culminated in a curiosity which was almost an obsession. Here, close at hand, was the solution of the mystery, and whether or not he learned anything as to the facts which had brought McGuire's discomfiture, he would at least see and talk with the awe-inspiring Hawk who had been the cause of them. Besides, there was Mrs. Bergen's share in the adventure which indicated that Beth's happiness, too, was in some way involved. For Peter, having had time to weigh Beth's remarks with the housekeeper's, had come to the conclusion that there had been but one man near the house that night. The man who had talked with Mrs. Bergen at the kitchen door was not John Bray the camera-man, or the man with the dark mustache, but Hawk Kennedy himself.

Peter entered the path to the Cabin, and explored it carefully, searching the woods on either side and then, cutting into the scrub oak at the point where he and Beth had first seen the placard, made his way to the maple tree. There was no one there. A glance at his watch under the glare of the pocket torch showed that he was early for the tryst, so he walked around the maple, flashing his light into the undergrowth and at last sat down, leaning against the trunk of the tree, lighted another cigarette and waited.

Under the depending branches of the heavy foliage it was very dark, and he could get only the smallest glimpses of the starlit sky. At one point toward Black Rock House beyond the boles of the trees he could see short stretches of the distant lawn and, in the distance, a light which he thought must be that of McGuire's bedroom, for to-night, Peter had noticed, the shutters had been left open. It was very quiet too. Peter listened for the sounds of approaching footsteps among the dry leaves, but heard only the creak of branches overhead, the slight stir of the breeze in the leaves and the whistle of a locomotive many miles away, on the railroad between Philadelphia and Atlantic City.

The sound carried his mind beyond the pine-belt out into the great world from which he had come, and he thought of many things that might have been instead of this that was—the seething yeast that was Russia, the tearing down of the idols of centuries and the worship of new gods that were no gods at all—not even those of brass or gold—only visions—will-o'-the-wisps.... The madness had shown itself here too. Would the fabric of which the American Ideal was made be strong enough to hold together against the World's new madness? He believed in American institutions. Imperfect though they were, fallible as the human wills which controlled them, they were as near Liberty, Equality, Fraternity as one might yet hope to attain in a form of government this side of the millennium.

Peter started up suddenly, for he was sure that he had heard something moving in the underbrush. But after listening intently and hearing nothing more he thought that his ears had deceived him. He flashed his lantern here and there as a guide to Hawk Kennedy but there was no sound. Complete silence had fallen again over the woods. If McGuire's mysterious enemy was approaching he was doing it with the skill of an Indian scout. And it occurred to Peter at this moment that Hawk Kennedy too might have his reasons for wishing to be sure that he was to be fairly dealt with. The placard had indicated the possibility of chicanery on the part of McGuire. "No tricks," Hawk had written. He would make sure that Peter was alone before he showed himself. So Peter flashed his lamp around again, glanced at his watch, which showed that the hour of the appointment had passed, then lighted a third cigarette and sank down on the roots of the tree to wait.

There was no other sound. The breeze which had been fitful at best had died and complete silence had fallen. Peter wasn't in the least alarmed. Why should he be? He had come to do this stranger a favor and no one else except McGuire could know of the large sum of money in his possession. The trees were his friends. Peter's thoughts turned back again, as they always did when his mind was at the mercy of his imagination. What was the use of it all? Honor, righteousness, pride, straight living, the ambition to do, to achieve something real by his own efforts—to what end? He knew that he could have been living snugly in London now, married to the Princess Galitzin, drifting with the current in luxury and ease down the years, enjoying those things——

Heigho! Peter sat up and shrugged the vision off. He must not be thinking back. It wouldn't do. The new life was here. Novaya Jezn. Like the seedling from the twisted oak, he was going to grow straight and true—to be himself, the son of his mother, who had died with a prayer on her lips that Peter might not be what his father had been. Thus far, he had obeyed her. He had grown straight, true to the memory of that prayer.

Yes, life was good. He tossed away his cigarette, ground it into the ground with his heel, then lay back against the tree, drinking in great drafts of the clean night air. The forest was so quiet that he could hear the distant tinkle of Cedar Creek down beyond the Cabin. The time was now well after eleven. What if Hawk Kennedy failed to appear? And how long must——?

A tiny sound close at hand, clear, distinct. Peter took a chance and called out,

"Is that you, Hawk Kennedy?"

Silence and then a repetition of the sound a little louder now and from directly overhead. Peter rose, peering upward in amazement.

"Yes, I'm here," said a low voice among the leaves above him.

And presently a foot appeared, followed by legs and a body, emerging from the gloom above. Peter threw the light of his torch up into the tree.

"Hey! Cut that," commanded a voice sharply.

And Peter obeyed. In a moment a shape swung down and stood beside him. After the glare of the torch Peter couldn't make out the face under the brim of the cap, but he could see that it wore a mustache and short growth of beard. In size, the stranger was quite as tall as Peter.

Hawk Kennedy stood for a moment listening intently and Peter was so astonished at the extraordinary mode of his entrance on the scene that he did not speak.

"You're from McGuire?" asked the man shortly.

"Yes."

"Why didn't he come himself?"

The voice was gruff, purposely so, Peter thought, but there was something about it vaguely reminiscent.

"Answer me. Why didn't he come?"

Peter laughed.

"He didn't tell me why. Any more than you'd tell me why you've been up this tree."

"I'm takin' no chances this trip. I've been watchin'—listenin'," said the other grimly. "Well, what's the answer? And who—who the devil are you?"

The bearded visage was thrust closer to Peter's as though in uncertainty, but accustomed as both men now were to the darkness, neither could make out the face of the other.

"I'm McGuire's superintendent. He sent me here to meet you—to bring you something——"

"Ah—he comes across. Good. Where is it?"

"In my pocket," said Peter coolly, "but he told me to tell you first not to forget the blood on the knife, Hawk Kennedy."

The man recoiled a step.

"The blood on the knife," he muttered. And then, "McGuire asked you to say that?"

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

"No. That's all."

Another silence and then he demand in a rough tone,

"Well, give me the money!"

Impolite beggar! What was there about this shadow that suggested to Peter the thought that this whole incident had happened before? That this man belonged to another life that Peter had lived? Peter shrugged off the illusion, fumbled in his pocket and produced the envelope containing the bills.

"You'd better count it," said Peter, as the envelope changed hands.

"It's not 'phoney'——?" asked Hawk's voice suspiciously.

"Phoney?"

"Fake money——?"

"No. I got it in New York myself yesterday."

"Oh——." There was a silence in which the shade stood uncertainly fingering the package, peering into the bushes around him and listening intently. And then, abruptly,

"I want to see the color of it. Switch on your light."

Peter obeyed. "You'd better," he said.

In the glow of lamp Hawk Kennedy bent forward, his face hidden by his cap brim, fingering the bills, and Peter saw for the first time that his left hand held an automatic which covered Peter now, as it had covered him from the first moment of the interview.

"Five hundreds—eh," growled Kennedy. "They're real enough, all right. One—two—three—four——"

A roar from the darkness and a bullet crashed into the tree behind them.... Another shot! Peter's startled finger relaxed on the button of the torch and they were in darkness. A flash from the trees to the right, the bullet missing Peter by inches.

"A trick! By ——!" said Hawk's voice in a fury, "but I'll get you for this."

Peter was too quick for him. In the darkness he jumped aside, striking Kennedy with his torch, and then closed with the man, whose shot went wild. They struggled for a moment, each fighting for the possession of the weapon, McGuire's money ground under their feet, but Peter was the younger and the stronger and when he twisted Hawk's wrist the man suddenly relaxed and fell, Peter on his chest.

The reason for this collapse was apparent when Peter's hand touched the moisture on Kennedy's shoulder.

"Damn you!" Hawk was muttering, as he struggled vainly.

Events had followed so rapidly that Peter hadn't had time to think of anything but his own danger. He had acted with the instinct of self-preservation, which was almost quicker than his thought, but as he knew now what had happened he realized that he, too, had been tricked by McGuire and that the murderous volley directed at Hawk Kennedy had come perilously near doing for himself. With the calm which followed the issue of his struggle with Kennedy, came a dull rage at McGuire for placing him in such danger, which only showed his employer's desperate resolve and his indifference to Peter's fate. For Hawk Kennedy had been within his rights in supposing Peter to be concerned in the trick and only the miracle of the expiring torch which had blinded the intruder had saved Peter from the fate intended for Hawk. Peter understood now the meaning of McGuire's explicit instructions and the meaning of the changing of the guards. The old man had hoped to kill his enemy with one shot and save himself the recurrence of his terror. What had become of him now? There was no sound among the bushes or any sign of him. He had slipped away like the poltroon that he was, leaving Peter to his fate.

"Damn you!" Hawk muttered again. "What did you want to come meddling for!"

The man couldn't be dangerously hurt if he possessed the power of invective and so, having possessed himself of Hawk's automatic, Peter got off his chest and fumbled around for the electric torch.

"It won't do you any good to lie there cursing me. Get up, if you're able to."

"Got me in the shoulder," muttered the man.

"And he might have gotten me," said Peter, "which would have been worse."

"You mean—you didn't—know," groaned Hawk, getting up into a sitting posture.

"No. I didn't," replied Peter.

He had found the torch now and was flashing it around on the ground while he picked up the scattered money.

"I'll fix him for this," groaned the stranger.

Peter glanced at him.

"His men will be down here in a moment. You'd better be getting up."

"I'm not afraid. They can't do anything to me. They'd better leave me alone. McGuire don't want me to talk. But I'll squeal if they bother me." Peter was aware that the man was watching him as he picked up the bills and heard him ask haltingly, "What are you—going to do—with that money?"

"My orders were to give it to you. Don't you want it?"

Peter turned and for the first time flashed the lamp full in the injured man's face. Even then Peter didn't recognize him, but he saw Hawk Kennedy's eyes open wide as he stared at Peter.

"Who——?" gasped the man. And then, "You here! 'Cre nom! It's Pete, the waiter!"

Peter started back in astonishment.

"Jim Coast!" he said.

Hawk Kennedy chuckled and scrambled to his feet, halfway between a laugh and a groan.

"Well, I'm damned!"

Peter was still staring at him, the recovered bills loose in his hand. Jim Coast thrust out an arm for them.

"The money," he demanded. "The money, Pete."

Without a word Peter handed it to him. It was none of his. Coast counted the bills, the blood dripping from his fingers and soiling them, but he wiped them off with a dirty handkerchief and put them away into his pocket. Blood money, Peter thought, and rightly named.

"And now, mon gars, if it's all the same to you, I'd like you to take me to some place where we can tie up this hole in my shoulder."

This was like Coast's impudence. He had regained his composure again and, in spite of the pain he was suffering, had become his proper self, the same Jim Coast who had bunked with Peter on the Bermudian, full of smirking assertiveness and sinister suggestion. Peter was too full of astonishment to make any comment, for it was difficult to reconcile the thought of Jim Coast with Hawk Kennedy, and yet there he was, the terror of Black Rock House revealed.

"Well, Pete," he growled, "goin' to be starin' at me all night?"

"You'd better be off," said Peter briefly.

"Why?"

"They'll be here in a minute. You've got your money."

"Let 'em come. They'll have to take me to McGuire——"

"Or the lock-up at Egg Harbor——"

"All right. I'll go. But when I open my mouth to speak, McGuire will wish that Hell would open for him." And then, "See here, Pete, do you know anything of what's between me and McGuire?"

"No—except that he fears you."

"Very well. If you're workin' for him you'll steer these guys away from me. I mean it. Now think quick."

Peter did. Angry as he was at McGuire, he knew that Jim Coast meant what he said and that he would make trouble. Also Peter's curiosity knew no subsidence.

"You go to my cabin. It's hidden in the woods down this path at the right——"

"That's where you live, is it?"

"Yes. You'll find water there and a towel on the washstand. I'll be there to help you when I sheer these men off."

Coast walked a few steps and then turned quickly.

"No funny business, Pete."

"No. You can clear out if you like. I don't care. I only thought if you were badly hurt——"

"Oh, all right. Thanks."

Peter watched the dim silhouette merge into the shadows and disappear. Then flashed his light here and there that the men who must be approaching now might be guided to him. In a moment they were crashing through the undergrowth, Jesse and Andy in the lead.

"What's the shootin'?" queried Jesse Brown breathlessly.

"A man in the woods. I'm looking for him," said Peter. "He got away."

"Well, don't it beat Hell——"

"But it may be a plan to get you men away from the house," said Peter as the thought came to him. "Did you see McGuire?"

"McGuire! No. What——?"

"All right. You'd better hurry back. See if he's all right. I'll get along——"

"Not if you go flashin' that thing. I could a got ye with my rifle as easy as——"

"Well, never mind. Get back to the house. I'll poke around here for a while. Hurry!"

In some bewilderment they obeyed him and Peter turned his footstep toward the Cabin.



CHAPTER XI

ANCIENT HISTORY

Peter wasn't at all certain that he had done the right thing. One event had followed another with such startling rapidity that there hadn't been time to deliberate. Jim Coast was wounded, how badly Peter didn't know, but the obvious duty was to give him first aid and sanctuary until Peter could get a little clearer light on Coast's possibilities for evil. None of this was Peter's business. He had done what McGuire had asked him to do and had nearly gotten killed for his pains. Two fights already and he had come to Black Rock to find peace!

In his anger at McGuire's trick he was now indifferent as to what would happen to the old man. There was no doubt that Jim Coast held all the cards and, unless he died, would continue to hold them. It was evident that McGuire, having failed in accomplishing the murder, had placed himself in a worse position than before, for Coast was not one to relax or to forgive, and if he had gotten his five thousand dollars so easily as this, he would be disposed to make McGuire pay more heavily now. Peter knew nothing of the merits of the controversy, but it seemed obvious that the two principals in the affair were both tarred with the same stick. Arcades Ambo. He was beginning to believe that Coast was the more agreeable villain of the two. At least he had made no bones about the fact of his villainy.

Peter found Coast stripped to the waist, sitting in a chair by the table, bathing his wounded shoulder. But the hemorrhage had stopped and Peter saw that the bullet had merely grazed the deltoid, leaving a clean wound, which could be successfully treated by first aid devices. So he found his guest a drink of whisky, which put a new heart into him, then tore up a clean linen shirt, strips from which he soaked in iodine and bandaged over the arm and shoulder.

Meanwhile Coast was talking.

"Well, mon vieux, it's a little world, ain't it? To think I'd find you, my old bunkie, Pete, the waiter, out here in the wilds, passin' the buck for Mike McGuire! Looks like the hand o' Fate, doesn't it? Superintendent, eh? Some job! Twenty thousand acres—if he's got an inch. An' me thinkin' all the while you'd be slingin' dishes in a New York chop house!"

"I studied forestry in Germany once," said Peter with a smile, as he wound the bandage.

"Right y'are! Mebbe you told me. I don't know. Mebbe there's a lot o' things you didn't tell me. Mebbe there's a lot of things I didn't tell you. But I ought to 'a' known a globe trotter like you never would 'a' stayed a waiter. A waiter! Nom de Dieu! Remember that (sanguine) steward on the Bermudian? Oily, fat little beef-eater with the gold teeth? Tried to make us 'divy' on the tips? But we beat him to it, Pete, when we took French leave. H-m! I'm done with waitin' now, Pete. So are you, I reckon. Gentleman of leisure, I am!"

"There you are," said Peter as he finished the bandage, "but you'll have to get this wound dressed somewhere to-morrow."

"Right you are. A hospital in Philly will do the trick. And McGuire pays the bill."

Jim Coast got up and moved his arm cautiously.

"Mighty nice of you, Pete. That's fine. I'll make him pay through the nose for this." And then turning his head and eyeing Peter narrowly, "You say McGuire told you nothin'!"

"Nothing. It's none of my affair."

The ex-waiter laughed. "He knows his business. Quiet as death, ain't he? He's got a right to be. And scared. He's got a right to be scared too. I'll scare him worse before I'm through with him."

He broke off with a laugh and then, "Funny to find you guardin' him against me. House all locked—men with guns all over the place. He wanted one of those guys to kill me, didn't he? But I'm too slick for him. No locked doors can keep out what's scarin' Mike McGuire——"

He broke off suddenly and held up his empty glass. "Another drink of the whisky, mon gars, and I'm yer friend for life."

Peter was still curious, so he obeyed and after cleaning up the mess they had made he sank into a chair, studying the worn features of his old companion. He had taken the precaution to pull in the heavy shutter of the window which had been opened and to lock the door. Peter did not relish the idea of a murder committed in this cabin.

"Not apt to come now, are they, Pete? Well, let 'em," he answered himself with a shrug. "But they won't if McGuire has his way. Murder is the only thing that will suit McGuire's book. He can't do that—not with witnesses around. Ain't he the slick one, though? I was watchin' for just what happened. That's why I stayed in the tree so long—listenin'. He must of slipped in like a snake. How he did it I don't know. I'm a worse snake than he is but I always rattle before I strike."

He laughed again dryly.

"I've got him rattled all O. K. Mebbe he'd of shot straighter if he hadn't been. He used to could—dead shot. But I reckon his talents are runnin' different now. Millions he has they say, mon vieux, millions. And I'll get my share of 'em."

Jim Coast smoked for a moment in contented silence.

"See here, Pete. I like you. Always did. Straight as a string—you are. You've done me a good turn to-night. You might of put me out—killed me when you had me down——"

"I'm no murderer, Jim."

"Right. Nor I ain't either. I don't want to hurt a hair of McGuire's head. Every one of 'em is precious as refined gold. I want him to live—to keep on livin' and makin' more money because the more money he's got the more I'll get—see."

"Blackmail," said Peter shortly.

Coast glanced at him, shrugged and laughed.

"Call it that if you like. It's a dirty word, but I'll stand for it, seein' it's you. Blackmail! What's a waiter's tip but blackmail for good service? What's a lawyer's fee from a corporation but money paid by men to keep them out of the jail? What's a breach of promise case? Blackmail—legal blackmail. I'm doin' nothin' less an' nothin' more than a million other men—but I'm not workin' with a lawyer. I'll turn the trick alone. What would you say if I told you that half of every dollar McGuire has got is mine—a full half—to say nothin' of payment for the years I was wanderin' an' grubbin' over the face of the earth, while he was livin' easy. Oh! You're surprised. You'd better be. For that's the God's truth, mon ami."

"You mean—he—he——" Peter's credulity was strained and he failed to finish his query.

"Oh, you don't believe? Well, you needn't. But there's no blackmail when you only take what belongs to you. The money—the money that made his millions was as much mine as his. I'm going to have my share with compound interest for fifteen years—and perhaps a bit more."

"You surprise me. But it seems that if there's any justice in your claim, you could establish it legally."

Jim Coast laughed again.

"There's a quicker—a safer way than that. I'm takin' it." He filled his glass again and went on, leaning far over the table toward Peter. "Voyons, Pete. When we came ashore, I made you an offer to play my game. You turned me down. It's not too late to change your mind. The old man trusts you or he wouldn't of sent you out with that money. I may need some help with this business and you're fixed just right to lend me a hand. Throw in with me, do what I want, and I'll see that you're fixed for life."

Peter shook his head slowly from side to side.

"No, Jim. He pays me well. I'm no traitor."

"H-m. Traitor!" he sneered. "He wasn't overparticular about you. He might of killed you or I might of, if you hadn't been too damn quick for me. What do you think Mike McGuire cares about you?" he laughed bitterly.

"Nothing. But that makes no difference. I——"

A loud jangle of a bell from the corner and Jim Coast sprang to his feet.

"The telephone," explained Peter, indicating the instrument. "That's McGuire now." He rose and moved toward it, but Coast caught him by the arm.

"Worried, eh?" he said with a grin. "Wants to know what's happened! All right. Tell him—tell the——." And then, as Peter released himself, "Wait a minute. Tell him you've got me here," laughed Coast, "a prisoner. Tell him I'm talking. Ask for instructions. He'll tell you what to do with me, damn quick," he sneered.

Peter waited a moment, thinking, while the bell tinkled again, and then took down the receiver. He was in no mood to listen to McGuire.

"Hello—Yes, this is Nichols.... All right, yes. Shot at from the dark—while paying the money. You hit Hawk Kennedy in the shoulder.... Yes, you. I'm no fool, McGuire.... He's here—at the Cabin. I've just fixed his shoulder——. All right——. What shall I do with him——? Yes—Yes, he's talking.... Let him go——! Hello! Let him go, you say? Yes——"

"Let me get to him——," growled Coast, pushing close to the transmitter. "Hello—Mike McGuire—hello——"

"He's gone," said Peter.

"'Let him go,'" sneered Coast. "You'd bet he'd let me go." Then he looked at Peter and laughed. "He's scared all right—beat it like a cottontail. Seems a shame to take the money, Pete—a real shame."

He laughed uproariously, then sauntered easily over to the table, took another of Peter's cigarettes and sank into the easy chair again. Peter eyed him in silence. He was an unwelcome guest but he hadn't yet gratified Peter's curiosity.

"Well, what are you going to do?" asked Peter.

"Me?" Coast inhaled Peter's cigarette luxuriously, and smiled. "I'm goin' West, pronto—to get my facts straight—all at the expense of the party of the first part. I might stop off at the Grand Canon first for the view. I need a rest, Pete. I ain't as young as I was—or I mightn't of let you put me out so easy to-night. I'm glad of that, though. Wouldn't like to of done you hurt——"

"And then——?" asked Peter steadily.

"Then? Oh, I'll beat it down to Bisbee and ask a few questions. I just want to hook up a few things I don't know with the things I do know. I'll travel light but comfortable. Five thousand dollars makes a heap of difference in your point of view—and other people's. I'll be an eastern millionaire lookin' for investments. And what I won't know about Jonathan K. McGuire, alias Mike McGuire—won't be worth knowin'." He broke off and his glance caught the interested expression on the face of his host.

"H-m. Curious, ain't you, Pete?"

"Yes," said Peter frankly. "I am. Of course it's none of my business, but——"

"But you'd like to know, just the same. I get you." He flicked off the ash of his cigarette and picked up his whisky glass. "Well——," he went on, "I don't see why I shouldn't tell you—some of it—that is. It won't do any harm for you to know the kind of skunk you're workin' for. There's some of it that nobody on God's earth will ever know but me and Mike McGuire—unless he slips up on one of his payments, and then everybody's goin' to know. Everybody—but his daughter first of all."

Coast was silent a long moment while he drained the whisky and slowly set the glass down upon the table. The shadows upon his face were unpleasant, darkened perceptibly as they marked the years his thoughts followed, and the lines at his lips and nostrils became more deeply etched in bitterness and ugly resolve.

"It was down in the San Luis valley I first met up with Mike McGuire. He was born in Ireland, of poor but honest parents, as the books tell us. He changed his name to 'Jonathan K.' when he made his first 'stake.' That meant he was comin' up in the world—see? Me and Mike worked together up in Colorado, punchin' cattle, harvestin', ranchin' generally. We were 'buddies,' mon gars, like you an' me, eatin', sleepin' together as thick as thieves. He had a family somewhere, same as me—the wife had a little money but her old man made him quit—some trouble. After awhile we got tired of workin' for wages, grub staked, and beat it for the mountains. That was back in nineteen one or two, I reckon. We found a vein up above Wagon Wheel Gap. It looked good and we staked out claims and worked it, hardly stoppin' to eat or sleep." Coast stopped with a gasp and a shrug. "Well, the long an' short of that, mon vieux, was a year of hard work with only a thousand or so apiece to show for it. It was only a pocket. Hell!" He broke off in disgust and spat into the fireplace. "Don't talk to me about your gold mines. There ain't any such animal. Well, Mike saved his. I spent mine. Faro. You know—an' women. Then I got hurt. I was as good as dead—but I pulled through. I ain't easy to kill. When I came around, I 'chored' for a while, doin' odd jobs where I could get 'em and got a little money together and went to Pueblo. When I struck town I got pretty drunk and busted a faro bank. I never did have any luck when I was sober."

"Yes, you've told me about that," said Peter.

"So I did—on the Bermudian. Well, it was at Pueblo I met up with Mike McGuire, and we beat it down into Arizona where the copper was. Bisbee was only a row of wooden shacks, but we got some backin', bought an outfit and went out prospectin' along the Mexican border. And what with 'greasers' and thievin' redskins it was some job in those days. But we made friends all right enough and found out some of the things we wanted to know.

"Now, Pete, if I was to tell you all that went on in that long trail into the Gila Desert and what happened when we got what we went for, you'd know as much as I do. You'd know enough to hold up Mike McGuire yourself if you'd a mind to. This is where the real story stops. What happened in between is my secret and Mike McGuire's. We found the mine we were lookin' for.... That's sure——How we got it you'll never know. But we got it. And here's where the real story begins again. We were miles out in the Gila Desert and if ever there's a Hell on earth, it's there. Sand, rocks, rocks and sand and the sun. It was Hell with the cover off and no mistake! No water within a hundred miles.

"Now, this is where the fine Eyetalian hand of Mike McGuire shows itself. We were rich. Any fool with half an eye could see that. The place was lousy—fairly lousy! It was ours——," Coast's brow darkened and his eyes glittered strangely as a darting demon of the past got behind them. "Yes—ours. Sacre bleu! Any man who went through what we did deserved it, by G——! We were rich. There was plenty enough for two, but McGuire didn't think so. And here's what he does to me. In the middle of the night while I'm asleep he sneaks away as neat as you please, with the horses and the pack-mules and the water, leavin' me alone with all the money in the world, and a devourin' thirst, more than a hundred miles from nowhere."

"Murder," muttered Peter.

Coast nodded. "You bet you. Murder. Nothin' less. Oh, he knew what he was about all right. And I saw it quick. Death! That's what it meant. Slow but sure. Hadn't I seen the bones bleaching all along the trail? He left me there to die. He thought I would die. Dios! That thirst!" Coast reached for the pitcher and splashed rather than poured a glass of water which he gulped down avidly. "There was nothin' for it but to try afoot for Tucson, which was due east. Every hour I waited would of made me an hour nearer to bein' a mummy. So I set out through the hot sand, the sun burnin' through me, slowly parchin' my blood. My tongue swelled. I must of gone in circles. Days passed—nights when I lay gaspin' on my back, like a fish out of water, tryin' to suck moisture out of dry air.... Then the red sun again—up over the edge of that furnace, mockin' at me. I was as good as dead and I knew it. Only the mummy of me, parched black, stumbled on, fallin', strugglin' up again, fallin' at last, bitin' at the sand like a mad dog...."

"Horrible," muttered Peter.

"It was. I reckon I died—the soul of me, or what was left of it. I came to life under the starlight, with a couple of 'greasers' droppin' water on my tongue. They brought me around, but I was out of my head for a week. I couldn't talk the lingo anyhow. I just went with 'em like a child. There wasn't anything else to do. Lucky they didn't kill me. I guess I wasn't worth killin'. We went South. They were makin' for Hermosillo. Revolutionists. They took all my money—about three hundred dollars. But it was worth it. They'd saved my life. But I couldn't go back now, even if I wanted to. I had no money, nor any way of gettin' any."

Jim Coast leaned forward, glowering at the rag carpet.

"But I—I didn't want to go back just then. The fear of God was in me. I'd looked into Hell."

He laughed bitterly.

"Then I joined the 'greasers' against Diaz. I've told you about that. And the 'Rurales' cleaned us up all right. A girl saved my life. Instead of shootin' me against a mud wall, they put me to work on a railroad. I was there three years. I escaped at last and reached the coast, where I shipped for South America. It was the only way out, but all the while I was thinkin' of Mike McGuire and the copper mine. You know the rest, Pete—the Argentine deal that might of made me rich an' how it fell through. Don't it beat Hell how the world bites the under dog!"