Mrs. Strong, observing her pallor, arose quickly and went to Alix's side, "What is it, dear?" she cried. "What was in that letter? You are as white as a ghost." Receiving for answer a pitiful little smile that was not so much a smile as a grimace of pain, she placed her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Why did you destroy it?"

"I—I don't know," murmured Alix through set, rigid lips.

"Yes, you DO know," said the other firmly.

Alix looked dumbly into her old friend's eyes for a moment, and then her honest heart spoke: "I destroyed it, Aunt Nancy, because I was afraid to read it again. It was from Addison Blythe. He has been making inquiries concerning Courtney Thane. In that letter he said things which, if true, make Courtney out to be a most—a most unworthy person."

She turned to look into the fire, her eyes narrowing. The black, flaky remnants of the letter were still fluttering on the hearth. As she watched, the draft caught them and sent them swirling up the chimney.

A high wind was blowing outside. It whistled mournfully around the corners of the house. Somewhere on the floor above a door, buffeted by the wind from an open window, beat a slow and muffled measure against its frame.

David's mother saw the colour slowly return to her companion's face. She waited. Something akin to joy possessed her. She was afraid to speak for fear that her voice would betray her. At last she said:

"We know nothing about Mr. Thane except what he has told us, Alix."

The girl looked searchingly into her eyes.

"You do not like him, Aunt Nancy. I have felt it from the beginning. Is it because you are David's mother?"

Mrs. Strong started. The direct question had struck home. She was confused.

"Why,—Alix,—I—what a silly thing to ask. What has David to do with it?"

Alix was still looking at her, broodingly. "Why don't you like him, Aunt Nancy?"

"Have I ever said I didn't like him?"

"No. But I know. I know that Charlie Webster does not like him. I knew that Addison did not like him."

Mrs. Strong could not resist the impulse to add: "And Sergeant did not like him."

"And you think THAT convicts him?" said the girl, half ironically.

"I have a good deal of faith in dogs," muttered Mrs. Strong, flushing.

Alix's gaze went to the huge vase of roses on the table. Then she turned quickly to look once more into her companion's eyes.

"You believe that Courtney poisoned him, don't you?"

"I have no more reason for believing it than you have, Alix," returned Mrs. Strong calmly.

"Why,—why do you say that?" cried the girl, startled.

"Because you would not have asked the question if you hadn't been—well, wondering a little yourself, Alix."

"Oh,—I don't want to think it," cried Alix miserably. "I don't want to think of it!"

"No more do I want to think it. Listen to me, Alix. I confess that I do not like this man. I have no way of explaining my feeling toward him. He has always been polite and agreeable to me. He has never done a thing that I can call to mind that would set me against him. Maybe it's because he is not of my world, because he comes from a big city, because deep in his heart he probably looks down on us Hoosiers. I will go farther, Alix, and say that I do not trust him. That is a nasty thing to say. It is none of my business, but I—I wish you did not like him so well, Alix."

"It would appear that my friends are taking more than an ordinary interest in my welfare," said Alix slowly, and with some bitterness. "Is it possible that you all believe me incapable of taking care of myself?"

"Smarter women than you, Alix Crown, have been fooled by men," said the other sententiously. "Oh, I don't mean the way you think, my child,—so don't glare at me like that. I know you can take care of yourself THAT way,—but how about falling in love? And getting married? And finding out afterward that roses don't grow on cactus plants? That's how women are fooled,—and you're no different from the rest of us."

"I think,—I am quite sure that he is in love with me, Aunt Nancy," said Alix, somewhat irrelevantly. There was no sign of gladness, however, nor of triumph, in her dark, brooding eyes.

"That's easy to understand. The point is, Alix,—are you in love with him?"

Alix did not answer at once. The little frown in her eyes deepened.

"I don't think so, Aunt Nancy," she said at last. "I don't believe it is love. That is what troubles me so. It is something I cannot understand. I don't know what has come over me. I will be honest with you,—and with myself. I do not really trust him. I don't believe he is all that he claims to be. And yet,—and yet, Aunt Nancy, I,—I—"

"Don't try to tell me," broke in the older woman gently. "My only sister thought she was in love with Terry Moore, a fellow who had been in the penitentiary once for stealing, and was a drunkard, a gambler, and a bad man with women, and all that. She was crazy about him. She ran off with him and got married. She never was in love with him, Alix. She hated him after a few weeks. He just cast some kind of a spell over her—not a mental spell, you may be sure. It was something physical. He was slick and smart and good looking, and he just made up his mind to get her. A man can be awful nice when he has once set his heart on getting a girl,—and that's what fools 'em, great and small. All the mistakes are not made by ignorant, scatter-brained girls, my dear. My father used to say that the more sense a woman has, the more likely she is to do something foolish. Now, Alix dear, I know just how it is with you. Courtney Thane has cast a spell over you. I believe in spells, same as the old New Englander used to believe in witchcraft. You don't love him, you don't actually believe in him. You—you are sort of like a bird that is being charmed by a snake. It knows it ought to fly away and yet it can't, because it's so interested in what the snake is going to do next. Thane is attractive. He is, far as I know, a gentleman. At any rate, he would pass for one, and that's about all you can expect in these days. The thought has entered both our minds that he put Sergeant out of the way. Well, my dear, I don't believe either of us would ever dream of connecting him with it if there wasn't something back in our minds that has been asking questions of us ever since he came here. You say you were afraid to read Mr. Blythe's letter again. Does that mean you are afraid everything he says is true?"

"Oh, I can't believe it,—I must not allow myself to even THINK it," cried the girl. "Why, if what Addison says is true, Courtney Thane is not fit to—There must be some mistake, Aunt Nancy. There were two men of the same name. I WILL NOT BELIEVE IT!"

The two tall women stood tense and rigid, side by side, their backs to the fire, gazing straight before them down the lamp-lit room.

"Has Addison Blythe any reason for lying to you, Alix?" asked the elder quietly.

"Of course not," Alix answered impatiently. "There is some mistake, that's all."

"Do you mind telling me what he says?"

"Mr. Thane is coming to see me tonight," said the girl, uneasily. "He may come at any moment now. What time is it?"

"Ten minutes of eight. He never comes before half-past." She waited a moment, and then went on deliberately: "I always had an idea it was because he wanted to be sure Sergeant was in the house and not out in the yard."

Alix closed her eyes for a second or two, as if by doing so it were possible to shut out the same thought that had floated through Mrs. Strong's mind.

"But he need not be afraid of Sergeant now," she said, with a little tremor in her voice. "He will come earlier tonight." The unintentional sarcasm did not escape Mrs. Strong. "Wait till tomorrow, Aunt Nancy. Then I may tell you."

"You are trembling, dear. I wish you would let me make your excuses to him when he comes. Don't see him tonight. Let me tell him—"

Alix turned squarely and faced her. There was a harassed, haunted expression in her eyes,—and yet there was defiance.

"I stayed away five days," she said huskily. "For five days I kept away from him. Then I—I gave up. I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to come home. Now, you have the truth. I just simply HAD to see him, Aunt Nancy,—I just HAD to."

"Then,—then it IS a spell," cried the other, dismay in her voice. "You are not yourself, Alix. This is not you who say these things."

"Oh, yes, it is!" cried the girl recklessly. "I wanted to come home. I wanted to see him. I don't love him, but I wanted to be with him. I don't trust him, but here I am. Now you have it all! I want to see him!"

Mrs. Strong was looking past her. She stared hard at the window in the far end of the room, her eyes narrowed, her chin thrust slightly forward. Then suddenly she clutched the girl's arm, her eyes now widespread with alarm.

"Look!" she whispered shrilly, pointing.

The flush faded from Alix's face; the reckless, defiant light left her eyes, and in its place came fear.

II — Plainly outlined in the window was the face of a masked man. A narrow black mask, through which a pair of eyes gleamed brightly.

The exposed lower portion of the face, save for the heavily bearded upper lip, was ghastly white. Brief as this glimpse was, they were able to see that he wore a cap, pulled well down over his forehead.

For a few seconds the two women stood as if petrified, their eyes wide and staring, their hearts cold, their tongues paralyzed. They were gazing straight into his shining eyes. Suddenly he turned his head for a quick, startled glance over his shoulder. The next instant he was gone, vanishing in the blackness that hung behind him like the magician's curtain in a theatre. They heard rapid footsteps on the veranda, the crash of a chair overturned, then a loud shout, and again the sound of flying footsteps across the brick-paved terrace. Another shout, and still another, farther away.

"Quick!" screamed Alix, the first to recover her voice. "The telephone! Call the drug store. Bill Foss is there."

She ran swiftly out into the hall.

"Come back!" cried Mrs. Strong. "What are you doing? Don't open that door! He's got a pistol, Alix!"

Even as she spoke, the report of a pistol shot came to their ears. As Alix stopped short, her hand outstretched to clutch the door knob, a second report came.

"Oh, my God!" she cried. "He has killed Courtney! He has shot Courtney!"

By this time, her companion had reached her side. She dragged her back from the door.

"Killed Courtney? What's the matter with you? Why do you say he has killed—"

"Don't you see—can't you understand? It was Courtney who surprised him. That's why he ran. He shot,—oh, let go of me! Let go of me, I say!"

"I'll do nothing of the sort," cried Mrs. Strong. "Do you want to get shot? Come away from this door!"

A door slammed against the wall at the back of the house. Some one came running through the dining-room. First the cook, then the little waitress, dashed into the hall.

"Wha-what is it? What's the matter?" shouted the former. "What was that shootin'—"

"Where is Stevens?" demanded Mrs. Strong, as she fairly pushed Alix into the living-room. "Call him! Isn't he out there in—"

"He went out,—half hour ago,—out," stuttered the waitress. "Who's been—what's happened to Miss Alix?"

"Nothing! Go and yell for Ed! Thieves! On the porch. Don't stand there, Hilda. Go out back and scream!"

"Oh, my God! Ed's killed! He's been shot! My husband's been shot!" It was the cook who sent this lamentation to the very roof of the house.

Mrs. Strong whispered fiercely in Alix's ear: "That's it! Ed is the one who surprised him. Courtney nothing! Now, you stay here! I'll telephone. Don't you dare go outside, Alix Crown. A stray bullet—"

Far away sounded the third shot, muffled by distance and the shriek of the wind....

Mrs. Strong was off somewhere trying to telephone. Shrill voices, out back, were screaming. Alix stood alone in the middle of the long room, staring at the window in which the sinister face had appeared. She had not moved in what seemed to be an age. A strange, incredible thing was creeping through her mind,—a thought that was not a part of her, something that seemed to shape itself outside of her brain and force its way in to crowd out the fear and anxiety that had gripped her but a few short moments before.

What would it mean to her if Courtney Thane were dead out there in the night?

It was not the question but the answer that fixed itself in her mind. She was unconscious of the one, but vividly aware of the other. His death would mean—emancipation! For one brief instant she actually LONGED for the word that he was dead! The reaction was swift, overwhelming.

"God!" she gasped, shutting her eyes and clenching her hands in an ecstasy of revulsion. "What a beast,—what a horrible beast I am! What a coward!"

Her knees trembled; an icy perspiration seemed to start out all over her body. She had wished him dead! She had grasped at THAT as the solution! Her heart had leaped joyously! It was as if some great weight suddenly had been lifted from it. Now she was numb with horror. What devilish power had taken possession of her in that brief, soul-destroying instant? She shuddered. She was afraid to open her eyes. She reached out with her hand for the support of the table. She had longed for some one to come and tell her that he was dead!

Some one was pounding on the outer door. She had a dim, vague impression that this pounding had been going on for some time. A sort of paralysis benumbed her sensibilities. Her eyes were now wide open, staring. Had her wish come true? Was some, one come to tell her that her horrible wish had come true? Suddenly the fetters fell away. She rushed frantically to the door and turned the knob. The driving wind flung it open with a force that almost swept her off her feet.

Thane stood on the threshold, hatless, panting. The light from the hall, falling upon his face, revealed a long red stain that ran from temple to chin. As she drew back, alarmed, he staggered into the hall, limping painfully, and pushed the door shut behind him.

"Oh!" she gasped.

He shot a swift, searching glance down the hall and into the living-room. Then he held out his arms to her. She was gazing spell-bound into his eager, shining eyes. He waited. She came to him as if drawn by some overpowering magnet. His arms closed about her....She was crushed against his body, she seemed a part of him. His arms were like smothering coils that pressed the life out of her; his hungry lips were fastened upon hers, hot and lustful.

Presently she began to struggle. Shame,—a vast, sickening shame,—possessed her. She was conscious of the wild, increasing lust that mastered him. She tried to tear herself from contact with his body, as from something base, unclean, revolting. His kisses held her. She was powerless to resist the passion that swept over her. Once more she surrendered,—and then came the shame, the overwhelming shame. She was debased, defiled! She put her hand to his face and pushed frantically to release herself from those consuming, unholy lips.

Suddenly he freed her, and sprang back, panting but triumphant. She heard him whisper, hoarsely, rapturously:

"God!"

Some one was coming. He had caught the sound of footsteps,—somewhere. Alix sank breathless, rigid, almost fainting, upon the hall-seat.

"Darling!" he whispered passionately. She half arose, caught once more by the irresistible spell that had first swept her into his embrace. He shook his head. Then she heard him speak. He was looking past her.

"I'm all right, Mrs. Strong. Don't mind me. Telephone for help."

"I have telephoned," cried Mrs. Strong, coming toward them quickly. "Help is coming. Good heavens! You are bleeding! Were you hit?"

III — The question aroused Alix. She was aware of something wet and sticky on the palm of her hand. She looked. It was covered with blood. Then she remembered putting her hand against his cheek. As if fascinated she stared for a second or two before her wits returned. Mrs. Strong must not see that bloody hand. She would know! Guiltily she clenched her fingers again and thrust her hand behind her back. She shuddered at the feel of the moist, sticky substance, and turned suddenly sick. Her one thought was to get to her room where she could wash away the tell-tale evidence. Again she heard him speaking, and hung on his words.

"Nothing but a scratch. I fell while chasing him. He got the start of me. My overcoat bothered me. I got it off, but not in time. It's out there somewhere. My rotten old leg is the worst. I twisted it when I jumped over the fence. That's when I fell. Tripped over some bushes or something. I was gaining on him. Up in the woods, you see. He was making for the road above. Oh, if this leg of mine was any good, I would have—" He broke off short to grip his knee with both hands, his face twitching with pain. The sentences came jerkily, breathlessly.

"Send for Dr. Smith!" Alix cried out suddenly. "Be quick! He has been shot,—I know he has been shot. Go—"

"It's a scratch, I tell you, Alix," he protested. "He didn't get me. He fired at me, but it was dark. I'm all right. There is no time to lose. If they get after him at once they'll catch him. I can show them which way he went. Where the devil are they? We ought to have every man in town out there in the woods. Did you tell 'em to bring guns? He's armed. He—"

"You ARE hurt," cried Alix. "You MUST have the doctor. Oh, for heaven's sake, DO SOMETHING!" The last was directed impatiently to Mrs. Strong.

"I'll give him a basin of water,—and some court plaster," said the older woman, who had looked closely at the scratch on the young man's cheek. "It doesn't amount to anything,—if that's all, Mr. Thane?"

"That's all,—except my knee, and that will be all right in a few minutes. Let me sit down here a minute. Not in there,—I'm covered with dirt and burrs and,—I might get some of this filthy blood on,—that's all right, Mrs. Strong, thank you. I'll be able to go out with the gang as soon as they come. Gad! It's going to be great sport. Man-hunting!"

Alix was leaning against the end of the hall-seat, watching him as if fascinated. He bent an ardent, significant look upon her, and her eyes widened slightly under the contact.

"I'll get some water ready for you in the kitchen, and a—" began Mrs. Strong, but Alix, suddenly alive, intercepted her with a cry.

"No! I will go, Aunt Nancy,—I insist!" And before Mrs. Strong could offer a word of protest, she flashed past her and was running up the stairs.

A look of chagrin leaped into Courtney's eyes. He had counted on another minute or two alone with her. Under his breath he muttered an oath.

Alix's bedroom door opened and closed. Mrs. Strong was still looking in astonishment up the staircase.

"I—she's pretty badly upset, Mr. Thane," she said at last. "That face in the window,—and everything."

"Good Lord,—you don't mean to say you saw him?"

"Yes,—looking in that window over there. Only for a second. You must have scared him away."

"Then, by George, you can identify him!"

"He had a mask on. Didn't you see his face?"

"No. It was dark. Masked, you say. That's bad. It will be hard to swear—Still, I saw his figure. Short, heavy fellow. Wore a cap."

She continued to look anxiously up the stairs.

"Wait here," she said shortly. "I must go up to her. Go to the kitchen if you like, and wash the blood off. I'll be back in a jiffy."

He waited till she was out of sight, and then limped into the living-room,—but with a swiftness incredible in one with a twisted knee. Going direct to the fireplace, he took something out of his coat pocket and, after a glance at door and window, quickly consigned it to the flames. A small black object it was, that crumpled softly in his palm and was consumed in a flash by the flames. A moment later he entered the kitchen, bringing consternation to the two excited domestics, both of whom sent up cries of alarm at the sight of his bloody face.

Meanwhile Mrs. Strong had surprised Alix in her bathroom, frantically washing her hands. She looked up and saw the housekeeper standing in the door behind her. The bowl was half full of reddish water. The expression of disgust in her eyes remained for a moment and then gave way to confusion. Neither spoke for some time.

"What are you doing?" asked Mrs. Strong.

"Oh, Aunt Nancy!" came in a choked voice from the girl's lips.

"Is that blood?"

"Yes," replied Alix, looking away.

"I—I understand. Oh, Alix,—Alix!"

"I don't know what made me do it,—I couldn't help myself. I—Oh, it was terrible! I don't love him,—I don't love him! As long as I live,—as long as I live, I shall never forget it. I shall never know anything like it again. I could feel my soul being dragged out of my body,—Oh, Aunt Nancy! What am I to do? What is to become of me?"

"There's only one thing for you to do now," said the other, slowly, levelly. "Stay in this room. Lock the door. Don't see him again. Keep away from him. He's—he's bad, Alix!"

"But he is not a coward!" cried the girl eagerly. "He followed that man, he chased him, he was shot at,—that is not what a coward would do. Addison Blythe is mistaken. Those men are mistaken. He—"

"I hear people downstairs,—and out in the yard. You must obey me, Alix. You must not see him again tonight. God in heaven, what kind of a spell has he cast upon you? The spell of the devil! Child, child,—don't you understand? That's what it is. The spell that makes women helpless! Stay here! I will send Hilda up to you."

"Why do you blame him for everything?" cried the girl hotly. "Doesn't a woman ever cast this spell you speak of? What defence has a man against—"

"Do you call yourself an evil woman? Nonsense! Don't talk like that. I am not blaming him. He can't help himself. He loves you. That's not his fault. But you do not love him. You are afraid of him. You would run from him if you could. He must go away. You must send him away. Tell him of Blythe's letter. Face him with it. Tomorrow,—not tonight. You are not yourself tonight. Trust me, dearest Alix. Do as I tell you. Promise."

"I will not come down," said Alix slowly, and Mrs. Strong went out. She heard the key turn in the door.