Greatly to Courtney's chagrin, his triumphal progress was summarily checked when he presented himself at the door. He could hardly believe his ears. Miss Crown was in her room and would not be able to see any one that night. She was very nervous and "upset," explained the maid, and had given orders to admit no one. Of course, Hilda went on to say, if Mr. Thane wanted to come in and rest himself, or if there was anything she or the cook could do for him,—but Courtney brusquely interrupted her to say that he was sure Miss Crown did not mean to exclude him, and directed Hilda to take word up to her that he was downstairs.

"It won't do any good," said Hilda, who was direct to say the least. "She's gone to bed. My orders is not to disturb her."

"Are they her orders or Mrs. Strong's orders?" demanded Courtney, driven to exasperation.

"All I can say, sir, is they're MY orders, sir," replied Hilda, quite succinctly.

"All right," said he curtly. Then, as an afterthought: "Please say that I stopped in to see if I could be of any further service to Miss Crown, will you, Hilda?"

He was very much crestfallen as he made his way down the steps to the lane. This wasn't at all what he had expected.

There were a number of people near the gate. Instead of going directly down the walk, he turned to the right at the bottom of the terrace and cut diagonally across the lawn. Coming to one of the big oaks he sat down for a moment on the rustic seat that encircled its base. Sheltered from the wind he managed to strike a match and light a cigarette. Assured that no one was near, he leaned over and felt with his hand under the bench. His fingers closed upon an object wedged between the seat and one of the slanting supports. Quickly withdrawing it, he dropped it into his overcoat pocket, and, after a moment, resumed his progress, making for the carriage gate in the left lower corner of the grounds.

He had a sharp eye out for Rosabel Vick. He heard Annie Jordan's high-pitched voice in the road ahead of him and slackened his pace. In due time he limped up the steps of Dowd's Tavern.

Several women were in the "lounge," chattering like magpies in front of the fire. There were no men about. He went in and for ten minutes listened to the singing of his praises. Then, requesting a pitcher of hot water, he hobbled upstairs, politely declining not only the Misses Dowd's offer to bathe and bandage his heroic knee, but Miss Grady's bottle of witchhazel, Miss Miller's tube of Baume Analgesique and old Mrs. Nichols' infallible remedy for every ailment under the sun,—a flaxseed poultice.

The first thing he did on entering his room was to open his trunk and deposit therein the shiny object he had recovered from its hiding-place under the tree-seat. Before hanging his hat on the clothes-tree in the corner of the room, he thoughtfully examined the bullet hole in the crown.

"Thirty-eight calibre, all right," he reflected. Poking his forefinger through the hole, he enlarged it to some extent. "More like a forty-four now," he said in a satisfied tone.

Margaret Slattery brought up the hot water and some fresh firewood for his stove, in which the fire burned low.

"Would you be liking a drink of whiskey, Mr. Thane?" she inquired, with a stealthy look over her shoulder. "You're all done up,—and half-frozen, I guess."

"Whiskey?" he exclaimed. "There ain't no sitch animal," he lamented dolefully.

"Miss Jennie's got some cooking brandy stuck away in the cellar," whispered Margaret. "We use it at Christmas time,—for the plum pudding, you know. I guess it's the same thing as whiskey, ain't it?"

"Well, hardly. Still, I think I could do with a nip of it, Maggie."

"I'll see what I can do," said Margaret, and departed.

She did not return, for the very good reason that Miss Jennie apprehended her in the act of pouring something from a dark brown bottle into a brand new fruit jar.

"What are you doing there, Maggie?" demanded Miss Dowd from the foot of the cellar stairs.

Miss Slattery's back was toward her at the time. She was startled into hunching it slightly, as if expecting the lash of a whip,—an attitude of rigidity maintained during the brief period in which her heart suspended action altogether.

"I'm—I'm getting some vinegar for Mr. Thane to gargle with, Miss Jennie," she mumbled. "He's—he's got a sore throat."

"Let me smell that stuff, Maggie," said Miss Jennie sternly. One sniff was sufficient. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Margaret Slattery, leading a young man into temptation like this. You may be starting him on the road to perdition. It is just such things as this that—"

"Oh, gosh!" exclaimed Margaret, recovering herself. "Don't you go thinking he's as good as all that. From what he was telling me at breakfast the other day, he used to make the round trip to purgatory every night or so,—only he said it was paradise. Keep your old brandy. He wouldn't like it anyway. Not him! He says he's swallered enough champagne to float the whole American Navy."

"The very idea!" exclaimed Miss Jennie. "Go to your room, Maggie. It's bad enough for you to be stealing but when you make it worse by lying, I—"

"I'm quitting you in the morning," said Margaret, her Irish up.

"It won't be the first time," said Miss Jennie, imperturbably.

Courtney sat for a long time before the booming little stove. He forgot Margaret Slattery and her mission.

"I guess it took her off her feet," he reflected aloud. "That's the way with some of them. They get panicky. Go all to pieces when they find out what it really means to let go of themselves. God! She's wonderful!" He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes; a smile settled on his lips. For a long time he sat there, fondling the memory of that blissful moment. A slight frown made its appearance after a while. He opened his eyes. His thoughts had veered. "What rotten luck! If it could only have been Alix instead of that—" He arose abruptly and began pacing the floor. After a long time he sighed resignedly. "I mustn't forget to telephone her tomorrow." Then he began to undress for bed.

He looked at his knee. There was a deep, irregular scar on the outside of the leg, while on the inside a knuckle-like protuberance of considerable size provided ample evidence of a badly shattered joint, long since healed. Along the thigh there was another wicked looking scar, with several smaller streaks and blemishes of a less pronounced character. He placed some hot compresses on the joint, gave it a vigorous massage, and, before getting into bed, worked it up and down for several minutes.

"Clumsy ass!" he muttered. "Next time you'll watch your step. Don't go jumping over fences in the dark. Gad, for a couple of minutes I thought I'd put it on the blink for keeps."

The next morning, up in the woods above Alix's house, the crude black mask was found, and some distance farther on an old grey cap, from which the lining and sweatband had been ripped. The search for the man, however, was fruitless. Constable Foss visited the camp of a gang of Italian railroad labourers near Hawkins and was reported to be bringing several indignant "dagoes" over to Windomville to see if Courtney or the two ladies could identify them. He was very careful to choose men with thick black moustaches.

Bright and early, Courtney repaired to the house on the hill. His progress was slow. Aside from the effort it cost him to walk, he was delayed all along the route by anxious, perturbed citizens who either complimented him on his bravery or advised him to "look out for that cut" on his cheek, or he'd have "a tough time if blood-poisoning set in."

Mrs. Strong admitted him.

"Well, when will she be able to see me?" he demanded on being informed that Alix was in no condition to see any one.

"I can't say," said Mrs. Strong shortly.

"Have you had the doctor in to see her?"

"No."

"Well, that's rather strange, isn't it?"

"Not at all, Mr. Thane. She isn't ill. She has had a shock,—same as I have had,—and she'll get over it in good time."

"You seem to have survived the shock remarkably well, Mrs. Strong," he said with unmistakable irony.

"How is the scratch on your face?" she asked, ignoring the remark.

"Amounts to nothing," he replied, almost gruffly. "I'll write a little note to Alix, if you'll be so good as to take it up to her."

"Very well. I'll see that she gets it. Will you write it here?"

"If you don't mind. I'll wait in case she wants to send down an answer."

"I'll get you some paper and pen and ink," said she.

"Some paper, that's all. I have a fountain pen."

He dashed off a few lines, folded the sheet of note paper and handed it to Mrs. Strong. He had written nothing he was unwilling for her to read. In fact, he expected her to read it as soon as she was safely out of his sight.

"She thinks she may feel up to seeing you tomorrow—or next day," reported the housekeeper on her return from Alix's room.

His rankling brain seized upon the words—" tomorrow—next day." He had used them himself only the night before. "Tomorrow,—or next day!" He frowned. Hang it all, was she putting him off? He experienced a slight chill.

"I will run in again in the morning," he said, managing to produce a sympathetic smile. "And I'll telephone this evening to see how she is."

All the way down the walk to the gate, he kept repeating the words "tomorrow,—or next day." In some inexplicable way they had fastened themselves upon him. At the gate he turned and looked up at Alix's bedroom windows. The lace curtains hung straight and immovable. It pleased him to think that she was peering out at him from behind one of those screens of lace, soft-eyed and longingly. Moved by a sudden impulse, he waved his hand and smiled.

His guess was right. She WAS looking down through the narrow slit between the curtains. Her eyes were dark and brooding and slightly contracted by the perplexity that filled them. She started back in confusion, her hand going swiftly to her breast. Was it possible that he could see through the curtains? A warm flush mantled her face. She felt it steal down over her body. Incontinently she fled from the window and hopped back into the warm bed she had left on hearing the front door close.

"How silly!" she cried irritably. She sat bolt upright and looked at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing-table across the room. Her night-dress had slipped down from one shapely shoulder; her dark, glossy hair hung in two long braids down her back; her warm, red lips were parted in a shy, embarrassed smile.

"I wonder—But of course he couldn't. Unless,—" and here the smile faded away,—"unless he possesses some strange power to see through walls and—Sometimes I feel that he has that power. If he could not see me, why did he wave his hand at me?"

There came a knock at her door. She was seized by a sudden panic. For a moment she was unable to speak.

"Alix! Are you awake?"

It was Mrs. Strong's voice. A vast wave of relief swept through her.

"Goodness!" she gasped, and then: "Come in, Aunt Nancy?"

"Courtney Thane has just been here," said the housekeeper as she approached the bed.

"Has he?" inquired Alix innocently.

"He left a note for you."

"Read it to me," said the girl.

"'Dearest: I am grieved beyond words to hear that you are so awfully done up. I am not surprised. It was enough to bowl anybody over. I did not sleep a wink last night, thinking about it. I have been living in a daze ever since. I cannot begin to tell you how disappointed I am in not being able to see you this morning. Perhaps by tonight you will feel like letting me come. Ever yours, Courtney.'"

"Well?" said Mrs. Strong, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

A fine line appeared between Alix's eyes. She was deep in thought.

"Have they caught the man?" she asked, after a moment.

"Not that I know of. What's more, they'll never catch him. Bill Foss sent word up he was bringing several Italians here to see if we could identify one of them as the man."

"How can we be expected to identify a man whose face was covered by a mask?"

"Well, Bill is doing his best," replied Mrs. Strong patiently. "We've got to say that much for him. Charlie Webster was here early this morning to say that the police up in town have been notified, and they're sending a detective out. But he won't be any better than Bill Foss, so it's a waste of time. What we ought to have is a Pinkerton man from Chicago."

Despite the calm, deliberate manner in which she spoke, there was an odd, eager light in Mrs. Strong's eyes.

"I wish you would go down to the warehouse, Aunt Nancy, and ask Charlie to take the car and go up to the city. Tell him to call up the Pinkerton offices in Chicago and ask them to send the best man they have. No one must know about it, however. Impress that very firmly upon Charlie. Not even the police—or Bill Foss. Have him arrange to meet the man in town and give him directions and all the information possible. Please do it at once,—and tell Ed to have the car ready."

"That's the way I like to hear you talk," cried Mrs. Strong.

Half an hour later, Charlie Webster was on his way to the city. He had an additional commission to perform. Mrs. Strong was sending a telegram to her son David.

II — The next day a well-dressed, breezy-looking young man walked into Charlie's office and exclaimed:

"Hello, Uncle Charlie!"

"Good Lord!" gasped Charlie Webster. "It can't be—why, by gosh, if it ain't Harry! Holy smoke!" He jumped up and grasped the stranger's hand. Pumping it vigorously, he cried: "I'd know that Conkling nose if I saw it in Ethiopia. God bless my soul, you're—you're a MAN! It beats all how you kids grow up. How's your mother? And what in thunder are you doing here?"

"I guess I've changed a lot, Uncle Charlie," said the young man, "but you ain't? You look just the same as you did fifteen years ago."

"How old are you? My gosh, I can't believe my eyes."

"I was twenty-four last birthday. You—"

"If ever a feller grew up to look like his father, you have, Harry. You're the living image of George Conkling,—and you don't look any more like your mother than you look like me."

"Well, you and Mother look a lot alike, Uncle Charlie. She's thinner than you are but—"

"Well, I should hope so," exploded Charlie. "Take a chair, Harry,—and tell us all about yourself. Wait a minute. Sam, shake hands with my nephew, Harry Conkling,—Mr. Slutterback, Mr. Conkling. Harry lives up in Laporte. His mother—"

"Guess again, Uncle Charlie. No more Laporte for me. I've been living in Chicago ever since I got married. Working for—"

"Married? You married? A kid like you? Well, I'll—be—darned!"

"Sure. And I'm not Harry, Uncle Charlie. I'm Wilbur. Harry's two years older than I am. He's married and got a kid three years old. Lives in Gary."

"You don't mean to say you're little Wilbur? Little freckle-faced Wilbur with the pipe-stem legs?"

Mr. Webster's nephew took a chair near the stove, unbuttoned his overcoat, and held his hands to the fire. He was a tall, rather awkward young man, with large ears, a turned-up nose and a prominent "Adam's Apple."

"I'm working for one of the biggest oil companies in the world. We've got six hundred thousand acres of the finest oil-producing territory in the United States, and we control most of the big concessions in Honduras, Ecuador, Peru, Colombia and—thirty million dollar concern, that's all it is. Oh, you needn't look worried. I'm not going to try to sell you any stock, Uncle Charlie. That is, not unless you've got fifty thousand to invest. I'll tell you what I'm here for. My company wants to interest Miss Crown in—"

"Hold on a minute, Wilbur," interrupted Charlie firmly. "You might just as well hop on a train and go back to Chicago. If you're expecting me to help you unload a lot of bum oil stock on Miss Alix Crown you're barking up the wrong tree,—I don't give a cuss if you are my own sister's son. Miss Crown is my—"

The young man held up his hand, and favoured his uncle with a tolerant smile.

"I'm not asking your help, old chap. I've got a letter to her from Mr. Addison Blythe, one of our biggest stockholders. All I'm asking you to do is to put me up at your house for a day or two while I lay the whole matter before Miss Crown."

"I haven't got any house," said Charlie, rather helplessly. "Wait a second! Let me think. How long do you expect to be here, Wilbur?"

"I wouldn't be here more than half an hour if I could get Miss Crown to say she'd take—"

"Well, she's sick and can't see anybody for a couple of days,—'specially book agents or oil promoters. I was just thinking I might fix something up for you over at the Tavern where I'm staying. It won't cost you a cent, my boy. I'd be a darned cheap sort of an uncle if I couldn't entertain my nephew when he comes to our town,—out of a clear sky, you might say. I'll be mighty glad to have you, Wilbur, but you've got to understand I won't have Miss Crown bothered while she's sick."

"Permit me to remind you, Uncle Charlie, that I am a gentleman. I don't go butting in where I'm not wanted. My instructions from the General Manager are very explicit. I am to see Miss Crown when convenient, and give her all the dope on our gigantic enterprise,—that's all."

"By the way,—er,—is that your automobile out there?"

"It's one I hired in the city."

"You—er—didn't happen to bring your wife with you, did you? Because it would be darned awkward if you did. She'd have to sleep with Angie Miller or Flora—"

"She's not with me, Uncle Charlie,—so don't worry. Of course, if it isn't convenient for you to have me for a day or two, I can motor in and out from the city. Money's no object, you know. I've got a roll of expense money here that would choke a hippopotamus."

"Come on over to the Tavern, Wilbur. We'll see Miss Molly Dowd and fix things up. Sam, if anybody asks for me, just say I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

And that is how "Mortie" Gilfillan, one of the ablest operatives in the Pinkerton service, made his entry into the village of Windomville. Inasmuch as he comes to act in a strictly confidential capacity, we will leave him to his own devices, content with the simple statement that he remained two full days at Dowd's Tavern as the guest of his "Uncle Charlie"; that he succeeded in obtaining an interview with the rich Miss Crown, that he "talked" oil to everybody with whom he came in contact, including Courtney Thane; that he declined to consider the appeals of at least a score of citizens to be "let in on the ground floor" owing to the company's irrevocable decision to sell only in blocks of ten thousand shares at five dollars per share; that he said good-bye to Mr. Webster at the end of his second day and departed—not for Chicago but, very cleverly disguised, to accept a job as an ordinary labourer with Jim Bagley, manager of the Crown farms.