Ellery H. Clark

“What mighty ills have not been done by woman!”

Otway.

It was nearly seven o’clock when Jack Carleton strolled into the carriage house, to find Satterlee, sleeves rolled up, his big rubber apron tied around his waist, busy washing the carriages. Leisurely Carleton took his seat upon an inverted bucket, and lit a cigarette. “So you use a horse now and then, too, do you, Tom?” he asked, “it isn’t all automobiles?”

Satterlee grinned a little ruefully. “To speak true, Mr. Jack,” he answered, “we gets a lot of trouble out of that there machine. The gentlemen walked the last quarter mile to-night, and she’s out there in the road yet. You see, we got a new universal joint—”

Carleton raised his hand. “No, no,” he cried, “you don’t get me to listen to any of those yarns. I don’t know anything about motors, and I don’t want to. A horse is good enough for me. It isn’t your automobile troubles I want to hear about, Tom. It’s your own, if you’ve got any, only I don’t believe you have. As near as I can make out, you’re an infernally lucky man.”

The chauffeur nodded. “I am that, sir,” he answered, readily enough. “No man could have had better luck, or more of it, than I’ve had the last year. It seems sometimes to me, Mr. Jack, like it couldn’t really be so. It’s been most too much for one man.”

Jack nodded. “It was all a surprise to me,” he said. “Mr. Carleton never told me he’d built you the house; I didn’t even know you were married. I wouldn’t know it now if I hadn’t happened to stop in there on the way up from the train. I only did it out of curiosity, too. I wondered who on earth had built that house, so near the big one.”

Satterlee’s face lit up with pleasure. “I’m more than glad you did, sir,” he said. “It’s a neat little place, if I am saying so. And you were after seeing the Mrs., I suppose?”

Jack nodded again. “Yes, indeed I did. She’s prettier than ever, Tom. And she was telling me all about the house. So Mr. Carleton built it for you.”

Satterlee pushed the wagon back into place, removed his apron, and took his stand in front of Carleton. “Yes, sir,” he answered, “you see, it was like this. I always liked Jeanne fine—no one could help it, she’s got that way with her—but I always thought as how she was more than a cut above me, being, as you might say, a lady, almost. And she never’d have much to say to me, either, excepting to pass the time of day, and such like things, you know, just friendly like, and nothing more. But about a year ago, of a sudden she began to seem to take more notice of me, and at last, never dreaming I was doing anything more than settle all my hopes of ever getting her, once and for all, I got that crazy about her I up and asked her—and she said she would. And then I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go to housekeeping, of course; I knew where I could rent a tidy little house down in the village, but I was feared of losing my job, if Mr. Carleton shouldn’t seem to take kindly to the idea of it.

“Well, at last I told him, and he seemed pleased enough, and asked me about my plans, and so on, and finally he said he’d like to think it over for a while. So I said all right, of course, and one evening he came down here, and talked a long time, about how fine a thing it was to be married—he spoke something beautiful about his poor dear lady—and said as how that I’d always done my work right, and been a faithful man to him, and as how he knew Jeanne was a fine girl, and so on, and finally that he’d hate to have me leave him—I got scared then—but he didn’t want me so far away as the village, and so, if I’d like it, partly for me, and partly for a good example to the rest of the house, he’d build me a cottage right here on the place, and set me up to housekeeping there. And that he did, and you’ve seen the cottage for yourself, so there’s no need of my saying what a neat little place it is, or how happy we are. I like it fine, and Jeanne even more than me, I believe; you know what it is for a woman to have her own home to fuss round with; flowers and a vegetable garden, and all such things. We couldn’t be better fixed in all the wide world.”

Carleton slowly nodded. “Well, I should say not,” he said at length. “And about the money, too. Jeanne was telling me of that.”

Satterlee’s face brightened. “Wasn’t that the greatest ever?” he said. “I never knew she had relatives so well fixed as that; I guess she didn’t, either; but Mr. Carleton looked after all the law part of it for her, and it seems she gets a steady income for the rest of her life. Not so much, of course, for some folks, but for her, you see, it’s just pin money, to do as she likes with. Of course I’d never touch a cent of it; I’m doing pretty well myself, and I live simple, anyway; but she likes her fine clothes, and her trip in town, same as all the women do, and I’m glad to let her have the fun. Sometimes I get let off, too, but I don’t like to go often; there’s plenty doing here with six horses, and that rascal of a car. And this summer she’s going off for two months to the mountains with some friends of hers. You see, the work gets slacker then; Mr. Carleton always goes away about that time, and it’s pretty hot here, of course, for a woman, anyway. Yes, Jeanne’s quite the lady now, and no one more glad than me.”

Carleton, again nodding thoughtfully, sat for some time in silence without looking up. At last he raised his eyes to the chauffeur’s. “Tom,” he said, speaking with unwonted gravity, “I’d like to ask you one question. What do you really think—” Abruptly he broke off. “Well, speaking of angels,” he muttered, and again was silent.

Down the drive Henry Carleton was walking briskly toward them, with a step that a youth of twenty might have envied. As he entered the carriage house, he eyed the pair a trifle keenly, it seemed, yet when he spoke his tone was amiability itself. “Ah, Jack,” he said, “I wondered where you’d gone. Talking over old times with Satterlee, I suppose. We dine at seven, you know.”Carelessly Jack Carleton answered him. “Yes, I know. I’ll be ready. Lots of time yet.”

There was nothing in the words at which offense could be taken, yet at the tone Henry Carleton’s eyebrows were raised a trifle. “Suit yourself,” he said, “as long as you’re not late,” then turning to the chauffeur. “It’s unfortunate about the motor, isn’t it, Satterlee? I understand you to say that you can’t possibly have it fixed before to-morrow night?”

Satterlee shook his head. “Oh, no, sir, not possibly,” he answered. “I shall have to go in town to-morrow morning, and see them at the factory. And then there’s a good half day, just on labor alone. No, sir, to-morrow night would be the very earliest possible.”

Henry Carleton’s face clouded a trifle, and for a moment he thought in silence. Then he spoke, with a little reluctance evident in his manner. “I don’t like to ask you to do it, Satterlee, but I can’t see any other way. I’ve promised to send a message over to Mr. Sheldon to-night, a message which is of great importance to both of us. I was going to ask you to take the motor, and go over after dinner—it wouldn’t have taken much over an hour, I suppose—but that’s out of the question now. Do you think, Satterlee, you could oblige me by taking one of the horses, and driving over. It will be something of a trip, I’m afraid.”

Satterlee’s assent could hardly have been readier, or more heartily given. “Of course I’ll go, sir,” he answered, “and be more than glad to. It’s not too long a drive, sir. The night’s fine. Let me see. Twelve miles over. Twelve miles back. I could take old Robin, sir, and make it in a matter of three hours, or I could take Fleetwood, in the sulky, and make it in pretty near an hour quicker, if there’s haste.”

Henry Carleton shook his head. “Oh, no, there’s no special hurry,” he answered, “and I wouldn’t take Fleetwood, I think. I want to save him for Mr. Jack to drive to-morrow. No, I think I’d take old Robin. And I suppose you could get started by eight. If you’ll stop at the house, then, Satterlee, I’ll have everything ready, and I’m sure I’m much obliged to you. I won’t forget it.”

Satterlee’s face showed his pleasure. There was a thoughtfulness and consideration in his master’s manner unusual and agreeable. “You’re more than welcome, I’m sure, sir,” he said. “I’ll be ready sharp at eight.”

Jack Carleton had stood silent, with knitted brows. Now he looked up quickly, gazing at Henry Carleton with a singular intentness, considering the comparative unimportance of the matter involved.

“What’s the matter with telephoning?” he asked abruptly, well-nigh rudely, in fact.

Henry Carleton smiled at him benignantly in return. “You always were fond of old Robin, weren’t you, Jack?” he said. “Well, I hate myself to use a horse on a drive as long as that, and I hate to use Satterlee so late at night, besides. But these happen to be a set of plans, Jack, and you know to telephone plans is rather a difficult thing; and, since you’ve been so good as to interest yourself in the matter, I’ll tell you further that they’re street railway plans, of very great importance, considering the fact that Sheldon is my counsel before a committee of the legislature to-morrow morning. After all,” he added more slowly, “it is a practical world, Jack. Some one has to look after things, even if it involves an evening trip, a horse and a man. But I suppose it’s hard for you to get used to it. Yours never was the strictly practical side.”

The tone was of kindly benevolence. That there was a deliberate purpose behind the words was evident. Jack Carleton’s face gave no sign, save that all at once his eyes seemed suddenly to have turned hard and cold. “I see perfectly now,” he answered. “Pardon my suggestion, won’t you? I didn’t know the drive was connected with any plans, or of course I shouldn’t have spoken. Well, I guess I’ll go ahead and dress for dinner now.”

He turned with elaborate nonchalance, almost feeling Henry Carleton’s searching glance follow him; and once, half way up the drive, he chuckled to himself, as if in his mind he felt perfectly satisfied with the result of the little encounter of words.

As he mounted the piazza steps, from the cosy corner hidden far back among the ivy, Rose Carleton and Vaughan advanced a little consciously to meet him. Very possibly, from a certain tumbled look about her pretty curls and a flush in her cheeks suspiciously bright, he felt that he might have done well to enter the house from the side door. Yet, if he had proved an interrupter, she readily enough forgave him, coming forward with hands outstretched, and kissing him affectionately, first on one cheek and then on the other. “Well, cousin Jack,” she cried, “it’s seemed so long. Welcome home again; I can’t tell you how glad I am.”

He held her off at arm’s length, looking at her with real affection in his glance, yet quizzically. “My dear,” he said, “those are very nice kisses. You weren’t as skilful as that when I left. But practice, I suppose, will do a lot for any one.”

Rose Carleton’s face flushed, but not at all with anger. She held up an admonishing finger. “Why,” she cried, “I am surprised at you. Even to hint at such a thing,” and then suddenly shifting the attack, “and what’s made you such a judge of kisses, anyway? Were they experts out where you’ve been? I think you ought to explain, at least.”

Carleton laughed. “Never mind, never mind,” he said, “we’ll change the subject at once; I’m getting embarrassed; but seriously, my dear, I wish you two people all the luck in the world. Nothing could please me better; you can be sure of that. But I’m not going to stay here and say nice things about you; I’ll warrant you do enough of that yourselves to make you as proud as peacocks. And if I don’t get ready for dinner, Henry’ll give me a calling down; I know that much from old times,” and with a friendly wave of his hand by way of parting benediction, he took his departure for his room.

To an outsider, it might have seemed that the company assembled for dinner was a somewhat curiously assorted one; yet the dinner itself, thanks to the efforts of the dark, observant man who presided at the head of the table, could hardly have been more successful. Tact—always tact—and in little things even more than in great, this was the feature that distinguished Henry Carleton’s discharge of his duties as host. And once well under way, there was little reason, indeed, why the occasion should not have been a success. The meal was one for an epicure, deliciously cooked and faultlessly served, and with a quality and variety in the liquids which accompanied it, sufficient to satisfy even Cummings himself. Fortunate, indeed, it seemed, that Jack Carleton took nothing at all, and that Henry Carleton and Vaughan drank sparingly, for Cummings’ capacity was frankly enormous. Constantly his red face grew redder and redder, and his conversation became every moment more and more monopolistic; yet Henry Carleton, with the courtesy of the host, seemed to pay no heed, and if there was any conflict between the laws of temperance and those of hospitality, the star of the latter seemed to be in the ascendant, for the butler was even more than assiduous in his attentions, and took good care that the bottom of Cummings’ glass was never visible from the beginning of the dinner until the end.A little late in beginning, it was doubtless due to Cummings’ frank enjoyment of his food and drink, and his innocent delight in recounting at length anecdote after anecdote of which he was invariably the hero, that the dinner came to an end far later than Henry Carleton had anticipated. It was fully half-past eight, indeed, before he had the opportunity to slip out on the piazza, where Satterlee sat patiently waiting, with old Robin dozing peacefully between the shafts. “I’m sorry, Satterlee,” he said, as he handed over the parcel; “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long. I’m afraid it’s going to be pretty late before you get back.”

Satterlee gathered up the reins. “Close to midnight, I expect, sir,” he answered cheerfully, “maybe later, if the old fellow doesn’t happen to be feeling very brisk. But what’s the odds? The night’s fine, and there’ll be a moon later on. It’s no difference to me. Good night, sir. I’ll be ready for the eight-two, in the morning,” and he jogged leisurely away down the avenue.

The rest of the party, in the meantime, had joined their host on the piazza. Almost imperceptibly Rose and Vaughan seemed to be again gravitating in the direction of the sheltered corner. Jack Carleton, observing them, smiled to himself; then turned to his host. “If you’ll excuse me, Henry,” he said, “I believe I’ll go up to my room, smoke a pipe and turn in. I’ve been awfully short of sleep since I got back.”

Henry Carleton, the hospitable, with the greatest readiness assented. “Why, of course, Jack, don’t talk of my excusing you. No such ceremony as that out here. Turn in, and sleep the clock around, if you want to. Come on, Cummings. You and I will have a little game of billiards, if that’ll suit you.”

“Suit me?” echoed Cummings expansively, “well, I guess yes. Surest thing you know.” This, he reflected to himself, was certainly going some. This was being treated better than ever before. A bang-up dinner; all the fizz he wanted—that, from Cummings, meant much—and now a game of billiards with the old man. And billiards was his particular long suit. No wonder that he was perfectly happy. Scarcely, it seemed to him, could he wait until the next morning, to see the other fellows in the office, and recount all his good fortune to their well-nigh unbelieving ears. “Surest thing you know,” he repeated again, “just what I’d like to do.”

Left alone, Rose Carleton and Vaughan retreated under the shadow of the vines. For a little while, indeed, with a self-restraint most commendable, their talk was not wholly of themselves. A few words they had to say about Jack; a few, with bated breath, concerning Cummings and his peculiarities; a brief account Vaughan gave of his wholly pleasant and successful interview with Henry Carleton, and then, in spite of themselves, their talk swung around into the path of that endless circle which engrosses so absolutely the attention of those happy persons but newly engaged, and soon, all unconsciously, they had drifted away into the realms of the small but all-sufficing world which can never be inhabited by more than two.

Meanwhile, up-stairs in the billiard room Jim Cummings was enjoying himself always more and more. The table was perfect; the cigar from the box which Henry Carleton had carelessly shoved toward him he had appraised with a critical eye, and instantly classified as a twenty-five-cent straight; at his elbow, on the neat little sideboard, were liqueurs, and Scotch and soda. Only a victory at the game was needed to make for Cummings a perfect world, and that finally was also forthcoming. Not easily, indeed; old Carleton, to his infinite surprise, played a most surprising game, marred only by a tendency to slip up on easy shots after he had made a run of those which almost any amateur in the city might have envied. The first game went to Cummings, the second to his host, the third and rubber at last, after the closest of finishes, to Cummings again. And then, pulling their chairs up to the little table, they sat for perhaps half an hour and talked. Cummings, indeed, seemed to be the leader as far as number of words went; Carleton apparently doing little more than to make a suggestion here, propound a difficulty there, and then finally to allow himself to be assured by Cummings’ lordly manner of overcoming every obstacle in the path. At last they rose; the lights in the billiard room were extinguished, and Carleton left his guest at the door of the bedroom allotted to him. “So I think,” he said, laying a friendly hand on Cummings’ arm, “that, as between two men of the world, we may fairly say that we perfectly understand each other.”

Cummings’ speech was a trifle thick, something scarcely to be wondered at, but his step was steady, and his brain clear. “Perfe’ly,” he responded. “No misund’standing at all. Perfe’ly, I’m sure.”

Henry Carleton looked at him sharply. He was well aware of the quantity of liquor his guest had somehow managed to put away. “And just one thing,” he added, “you won’t forget that it’s got to be done quietly. That’s the important thing. You can’t be too careful. It’s a most delicate mission. That, Jim,” he added in a burst of confidence, “is why I selected you.”

Cummings’ immediate expansion was visible to the eye. “I ’preciate your choice,” he responded handsomely, “and I un’erstand just how you want it done. ’S that enough, or d’you want talk some more?”Henry Carleton whipped out his watch. “No, no,” he answered hastily, “it’s late now, Jim. Later than I thought. We understand each other, of course. Do your best, that’s all. And, Jim,” he added, with a curious note, almost, one would have said, of entreaty, in his tone, “you understand my motives perfectly, don’t you? You see my reasoning? You’re convinced that I’m acting for the best?”

Singular enough it was to see the great financier verging on an appeal to a man in every way so far his inferior. Cummings, even in his slightly befuddled condition, seemed to appreciate the honor conferred. “Mr. Carleton,” he answered, “I un’erstand ’ntirely. Your motives irreproachable; no one say otherwise, by possibility.”

Henry Carleton looked his relief. “Good,” he said briefly. “I shouldn’t proceed without your approval of the plan. And you will bear in mind the need of haste, I know.”

It was five minutes later that he rejoined his daughter and Vaughan upon the piazza, with his usual thoughtfulness emerging slowly from the house, and clearing his throat somewhat ostentatiously several times by way of fair and friendly warning. It may have been that this signal was needed, it may have been that it was not; in any event, when Henry Carleton had actually reached the cosy corner, it was to find Rose and Vaughan seated decorously enough some distance apart, although for the moment, indeed, conversation between the two appeared to have come completely to a standstill.

Henry Carleton eyed them benevolently. “A beautiful night,” he observed impartially, and then, more especially addressing himself to Rose, “Did you know that it was after half-past ten, my dear. Early to bed, you know.”

In the darkness Rose Carleton frowned impatiently. Yes, she knew. That she should retire early was one point on which her father insisted with a strictness that made it hopeless to contest the point with him. “Early to bed.” She felt a huge dislike for the worthy originator of the phrase. Even the soundest and sanest of maxims, without the occasional exception which proves the rule, may come to mean next to nothing. “Yes, I know it,” she answered shortly, with just a trace of irritated rebellion in her tone. Eighteen does not relish being treated like twelve.

Her father noted the tone. “Well, good night, my dear,” he observed evenly. “Say good night to Mr. Vaughan, and don’t forget to be up in good season to-morrow. We shall be a little hurried without the motor. You must have our coffee ready for us sharp on time.” Then, a pause ensuing, without any move seeming to come from Rose, he added persuasively, “I trust you and Mr. Vaughan have enjoyed your evening together, my dear.”

There was a hint of mild reproach in his tone, and at the words forthwith the girl relented. It was true enough. He had been considerate to allow her to have Vaughan to herself for the evening. It would have been easy to have managed things otherwise. He was a pretty good father, after all. So obediently she rose and gave her hand to Vaughan, with just sufficient pressure to let him understand that had the occasion served, her good night would have been a very different one, kissed her father, and went quietly up-stairs.

Left alone, Vaughan turned to Henry Carleton.

“Cummings turned in?” he asked casually.

Carleton nodded. “Yes, he’s turned in, I believe,” he answered; then, with the hospitality for which he was famous, he added, “Is there anything more that I may chance to be able to do for your entertainment, Mr. Vaughan?”

Vaughan shook his head. “Oh, thanks, no,” he answered, “I’m ready for bed myself, I believe.”

“Very well,” said Carleton quickly, “then I think, in that case, if you will excuse me, I’ll take my little turn about the grounds and retire myself. If you should care for a pipe on the piazza, the house is always open. We don’t lock up here at all. I always say, if a burglar is going to try to break into a country house, that’s all windows and doors, a key turned in the lock isn’t going to stop him. So you can get in at any time between now and morning.”

Vaughan laughed. “Thanks,” he answered, “that’s genuine kindness, but I don’t think I shall take advantage of it. A bed seems more attractive to me just now than a pipe even.”

“Suit yourself,” answered Carleton, “I’ll have my man call you in the morning. Good night.”

He turned indoors as he spoke, and Vaughan stood silent for perhaps five minutes, looking out into the glorious summer night, with his thoughts where they could scarcely have failed to be—on the wonderment of all the happiness that had come to him, on the difference that the love of a girl had made in him, his ambitions, his hopes, of all the great things that he longed to accomplish now for her sake, to show her that perhaps she had not chosen unworthily.

Then, coming suddenly to himself, he decided that it would be pleasant to accompany Carleton on his rounds, looked indoors for him, and not finding him there, concluded that he must have gone out by some other way. Coming out once more on to the piazza, he stood for a moment irresolute, had even made a hesitating step toward the house again, and then, summoned irresistibly by some subtle kinship with tree and flower, star and whispering breeze, he walked hastily down the steps, and then, more leisurely, strolled away around the curve of the drive until his figure was lost amid the shrubbery of the lawn.

Surely Henry Carleton’s little evening had been enjoyed to the full by every one. And, as it chanced, even the humblest actor in it was to have his share of luck. Tom Satterlee, with some two thirds of his journey to Mr. Sheldon’s accomplished, suddenly gripped the reins more tightly as a warning blast fell on his ears, and a moment later a big motor whizzed past him from the rear. Instantly he recognized the chauffeur, driving alone, and the next moment his cheerful hail had brought the motor to a halt. Then ensued a brief conference, resulting in the transfer of the package, while Satterlee, with a good hour saved from the schedule that was to bring him back at midnight, in high good humor turned old Robin’s head toward home.

Meanwhile, back at The Birches, Vaughan wandered idly along, his feet on earth, his thoughts in the clouds. Rose and his book. His book and Rose. From one to the other his thoughts plied back and forth. Not, indeed, that the book could ever rival Rose, but it was as a means to win her that it now appeared most precious to him, as if his written word, as something outside of himself, were striving, like some faithful friend, to aid him in his fight—and Rose and the book and his happiness blended in his mind with all the intoxication of youth and hope, and a world still untried and unconquered, its problems undespaired of still.

On and on he walked, half unconscious of where he was going, and then, on a sudden he seemed to become aware of a light flashing somewhere ahead of him through the trees, now disappearing, now, as he went onward, springing again into view, much as some gigantic will-o’-the-wisp might have done. And at the same instant, looking around him, he perceived, to his surprise, that unconsciously he had been following the trail of a little rough hewn path, winding first to right, and then to left, but always forward, and always toward the light. Partly from a real curiosity as to what it might be, partly with enough of the instinct of boyhood days left in him, to make him feel a perfectly irrational delight in the sense of nocturnal adventure, he skirted his way along through the woods, and a moment later found himself standing on a little elevation of rock, gazing through the trees at the house which stood over across from him, not a hundred yards away, amid the circle of birches which, gleaming like silver in the faint moonlight, surrounded it with their protection as with a natural palisade.

Something singular there seemed to him about the whole affair. The cottage he could not place; and idly he began to wonder whether, intent upon his day-dreams, he had wandered farther than he had intended, and had crossed the boundaries of The Birches to trespass on some neighboring domain. His vivid imagination had even begun to weave a web of vague, elusive romance about the cottage itself, based partly, perhaps, on the spell of the moonlight, partly on the fact that despite the lateness of the hour a light still gleamed in the upper, and one in the lower, hall. And then, with a realizing rush of sober common sense, with a smile at his wandering fancies, he came back to real life again, and had turned, though half regretfully, to go, when suddenly, at the very instant, he stopped, and again stood still. A dark figure had come across the lawn in the rear of the house, walked up to the door without reconnoitering, and disappeared within.

A moment or two of silence. Then the light down-stairs was extinguished, and an instant later the one above was suddenly darkened, until only the faintest glimmer remained. And again Vaughan, though half doubtfully this time, smiled at his folly. Surely this was the novelist at his worst. Striving to find something unusual and strange, worthy of his notice and comment, in what? In the coming home of some prosaic householder, doubtless tempted into a longer stay than usual at the village by the charms of the good fellowship of tavern or grocery store.

Suddenly his heart leaped. What was that? Something mysterious was on foot, then, after all. From within the house came sounds as if of a struggle—a crash, as of furniture overturned—a single half-choked, muffled cry. Then a rush and clatter of feet on the stairs, and then, before his wide-open, straining eyes, from the rear door of the house a figure emerged, followed almost instantly by another. The pursued, the taller and slimmer of the two, and evidently by far the fleeter of foot, ran, as one who knows his ground, straight for the thickest cluster of trees, and reaching them, dived into their shelter like a hare. The pursuer, following for a space, all at once slackened his speed, swerving and bearing aimlessly away, constantly farther and farther to the left, in a wide half circle, his body bent all the time more and more to one side, his head thrown back and upward, as if spent and exhausted, even with the brief effort he had made. And finally, fairly doubling on his tracks, he came headed straight for the rock at the summit of which Vaughan stood. Nearer and nearer he came, and then, quickly, as in the faint moonlight the man’s face became more plainly visible, Vaughan drew one instant gasping breath of sickened horror. The face was set, as if rigid with agony, the eyes were unnaturally wide, and over the upturned forehead and the pallid cheeks flowed something hideously dark and glistening. And then, convulsively, with a ghastly semblance of an athlete who finishes his race, the figure threw one arm high into the air, as if grasping for support, staggered, pitched forward, and fell motionless, lying, in the darkness below, a huddled heap in the road.

To Vaughan, all unschooled in the darker experiences of life, came a sudden access of blind terror. He knew that he should at once descend, yet, knowing it, stood motionless, his will unequal to the task. And then, as he sought to nerve himself for the trial, nature intervened. At once he was conscious that his heart was throbbing so faintly and so fast that his ear could scarcely separate the beats; something tightened in his throat; the silver birches floated and turned before him, and he found himself nearer fainting than he had ever been in his life before. Slowly, after what seemed to him an indefinite period of semi-consciousness, his brain again cleared; distrustingly he loosed his hold on the sapling which he had grasped, and with genuine courage, sought once more to approach the edge of the little cliff and begin his descent.

Yet that descent, spite of his newly taken resolution, was now never to be made. At the edge he gave one shuddering look below, then hastily and with caution drew back, peering fixedly through the screen of leaf and branch. The man, indeed, still lay where he had fallen, but now, creeping down the driveway, came the first figure, returning, as if impelled by some impulse too powerful to resist. Stealthily it approached the huddled figure on the ground, looked around listening, then swiftly knelt, turned the body over, and raised the head upon its knee. Then came the quick spurt of a match, and Vaughan, leaning forward with fascinated gaze, saw more than he wished to see—saw what he would have given anything in the world not to have seen; for the motionless figure, with head drooped horribly to one side, hair matted, and face streaked and dabbled with red, was that of Tom Satterlee, and the face which bent over him, showing pale and horror-stricken in the light of the tiny flame, was the face of Jack Carleton. Vaughan turned and ran.