The scraping, laboured sound grew nearer and louder, and presently there was added the thick, stertorous breathing of the climber as he drew close to the mouth of the cave.

Courtney crept farther away from the opening and watched with narrow, frowning eyes for the head to appear above the ledge. He held the revolver in his shaking hand, but he knew he was not going to shoot. He thrilled with a strange sort of glee, however, at the thought of the ease with which he could send the fool crashing to the ground far below, but what would be the use? He was trapped.

He had a queer and strangely ungrudging respect for the courage of this man of Uncle Sam's, this man who was not to be turned back or daunted by the prospect of sudden death when engaged in the performance of his duty. What use to slay this single, indomitable pursuer when nothing was to be gained by the act? There were others down there to avenge him,—to starve him out, or to burn him out if needs be. Murder, that's what it would be, and they would hang him for murder. If he shot this fellow there would be but one course left open to him. He would have to shoot himself. And he loved life too well for that. Five, even ten years behind the bars,—and then freedom once more. But the gallows,—God, no!

He stood up and leaned with his back against the wall, bracing his legs which threatened to crumple up under him. With a sort of craven bravado, he inhaled deeply. The end of the cigarette created a passing but none the less comforting glow which died away almost instantly. A jolly brave thing, a cigarette,—No wonder the soldiers smoked them! Nerve steadying,—no question about it.

He waited. Once he thought he was going to scream. Why was the fellow so slow? Surely it had not taken him so long to come up that ladder of stone,—and he was the pioneer, he had cleared the slots of dirt and sand, he had made the hand holds safe, he had torn his finger-tips digging them out,—what made the fellow so slow?

At last he made out a vague, slender object moving like the tentacle of an octopus above the ledge,—and then the bulky head and shoulders of the climber.

"I surrender!" he called out. "I give up. If you had waited till I pulled myself together, I would have come down. I'm all in. I surrender."

The man scrambled over the ledge and drew himself erect. His figure was dimly outlined against the moon-lit sky. He came a few steps inside the cave and stopped, evidently striving to pierce the darkness with his questing eyes.

Courtney pushed himself away from the supporting wall and advanced slowly.

"Here's my gun," he faltered, and the weapon clattered on the rocky floor at his feet. "Don't shoot! I am unarmed. My hands are up,—comrade."

"Stand still," warned the other hoarsely. He was breathing heavily. "Don't move!"

Courtney took another pull at the cigarette that hung limply between his sagging lips. He could be as brave, as cool as the other fellow! He would give them something to talk about when they related the story of his capture. He would—

Suddenly the man lunged forward...A pair of iron arms wrapped themselves about his waist. He went down with a crash. Even as the cry of surprise and indignation rose to his lips, his head struck and his mind became a blank.

Slowly, as out of a fog, his senses came back. He was hazily aware of a light shining in his eyes, and of a dull pain somewhere. Things began to take shape before his whirling eyes. He strove to steady them, to concentrate on the bright thing that flitted back and forth before them. At last the blaze became stationary.

Quite close at hand was a fire,—a bright, crackling fire whose flames danced merrily. Where was he? It was not like any other fire he had ever seen before....Then he saw a face. It gradually fashioned itself out of the gloom high above the flames. He blinked his eyes and stared. Somehow it was vaguely familiar, that face.... He lifted his head and peered intently. Then he raised himself on his elbow, all the while trying to fix that floating face in his mind.

Suddenly his brain cleared. The full picture was revealed: A man standing over the blazing pile of box-wood, gazing down at him with great, unblinking eyes. The sloping roof of the cave, half lost in the thin cloud of smoke, almost touched the crown of the watcher's head,—and this watcher was in the garb of a sailor.

Caleb Vick! Young Caleb Vick!

For a long time the two looked into each other's eyes. Courtney's wavering and uncertain, Caleb's fixed and triumphant.

"Is—is that you, Cale?" mumbled the former wonderingly.

Young Vick nodded his head slowly.

"How did you get here?" asked Thane, sensing peril in those boring, unfaltering eyes. His hand went out to feel for the revolver he had dropped. "Where—What has become of the man that jumped on me? The detective."

"I am the man," said Cale levelly.

"You? What's the matter with you, Cale? This is a hell of a way to treat a friend. What do you mean by helping these—"

"Cut that out," snarled Cale. "It don't go with me. Get up! You dirty cur,—get up!"

"My God, Cale,—have you gone crazy?" gasped Thane, going cold to the marrow. He shot a swift, terrified look toward the mouth of the cave.

"Get up! It won't do you any good to yell. No one will hear you."

Courtney drew himself to his knees.

"It won't, eh? There's a gang of Secret Service men down there. They'll blow your brains out if you—"

"There is no one down there," said the boy, a crooked smile on his lips.

"I tell you there is," cried the other, desperately. "I heard them. They trailed me here. They—"

"I guess I put one over on you, Courtney," interrupted Cale, his voice low and deadly. "I am the fellow that chased you here. There's nobody else. Oh, I know they're looking for you,—but they don't know where you are. Nobody knows but me. I saw you sneaking across that lot back yonder. I was down at the ferry—I saw—Rosabel—there." His voice faltered. He steadied it with an effort before going on. "I was too late. She wrote me. Then father telegraphed me—They let me off. I came as soon as I could. I ran all the way from Hawkins. I knew what had happened. She wrote me. But I thought maybe she'd lose her nerve,—or, maybe you would do the right thing by her and save her. I saw her down there on the dock. You did it. You got her into trouble. You—"

"I don't know what you are talking about," cried the other. "What's this you are saying? Have you lost your mind, Cale? My God, boy,—I,—why, what sort of a beast do you think I am? I—I adored her. Come, come, Cale! Calm yourself! You know perfectly well how fond I was of her. I couldn't have done anything so foul as—Why, Cale, she was nothing but a kid, a little girl to me. I—"

"Yes,—that's what she was,—a kid, just a poor little kid. She trusted you. I trusted you. We all trusted you. And now she's—she's dead. My sister! My pretty little sister!" He straightened up and threw his arm across his eyes, only to withdraw it instantly. "GOD DAMN YOU! Get up! Come over here! Here's her letter. Read it! Read it, you dirty swine!"

He reached inside his blouse and drew forth a folded bit of paper.

"I—I don't want to read it," faltered Thane, shrinking back. "I know nothing about all this nonsense you are—"

"I give you ten seconds to do what I tell you," grated Cale, harshly. "If you don't I'll blow your head off." He levelled the revolver. "It's your own gun,—so I guess you know it's loaded. Come on!"

Thane crawled to the fire.

"My God,—you wouldn't kill me, Cale?" he gasped, reaching out his shaking hand for the letter.

"Read it!" ordered the inexorable voice.

It was a short letter. Courtney took it in as a whole; the dancing, jumbled web of words that raced before his glazed eyes. Parts of sentences, a word here and there, his own name, filtered through the veil,—and were lost in the chaos of his own thoughts.

He was not thinking of Rosabel's letter. If he could only catch Cale off his guard,—just for a second or two! A swift leap, a blow, and—but a lightning glance out of the corner of his eye killed the thought even as it was being created. Cale would not be off his guard. He was watching like a hawk, his body bent slightly forward, the revolver held in a grip of steel.

"Well?" cried Cale. "Have you read it?"

"Yes," whispered Courtney through his stiff lips. "It's not true, Cale,—it's not true!"

"Yes, it is true. Rosie would not lie about herself like that. No girl would. Every word of it is true." He snatched the paper from Courtney's palsied hands and cast it into the waning fire. "No one shall ever see that letter. I would not have mother know what I know for all the world. She'll never know about Rosie."

Courtney took hope. "By gad, Cale, that's fine of you. I promise you, on my word of honour, no one ever shall know. I'll keep the secret with you. You—"

"There will be only one person left in all the world that knows about Rosie," said Cale in a strangely quiet tone.

His left hand went out swiftly. The fingers clutched Courtney's hair, pushing his head back. Even as the wretch opened his lips to squeal for mercy, the cold muzzle of the weapon was jammed against the flesh under his ear. There was a loud explosion....

Young Cale Vick stood for a long time looking down at the inert thing at his feet. Then he calmly stooped over and placed the pistol in one of the outstretched hands, closing the stiff fingers over it. Scattering the fire with his feet, he trampled out what was left of the feeble flames, and then strode to the mouth of the cave. He stood rigid for a long time, listening. A dog was howling mournfully away off in the night; an owl was hooting somewhere in the trees nearby. He turned and began the descent, and there was neither remorse nor terror in his soul.

A few days later the report reached Windomville that a farmer up the river had seen a light in Quill's Window the night that Rosabel Vick was found, and all the superstitious shook their heads and talked of ghosts.