The color slipped away, then flooded back to Nell Harley's cheeks and brow. Her fine eyes brightened, then dimmed sweetly. She withdrew her hand from his, and turned away.

"Until you love me," repeated Rayton, in a dry voice that strove to be both commonplace and courageous. "If—if that is not to be," he continued, "then I will go away."

She whispered something; but because of her averted face he did not catch the words.

"I beg your pardon?" he queried fearfully. "I did not hear."

Now she stood with her back to him; but not far from his one capable hand hanging empty and hungry over the edge of the bed.

"Can't you—pretend?" she asked very faintly.

"Pretend?" he repeated, in wonder; for, after all, he was rather a simple soul in some things. "Pretend? I am not pretending. I don't think I am much of a hand at pretending. What—do you mean?"

"If—you—care for me—please pretend that you do not like me at all. Keep away from our place—you know, and—and when we meet by accident—don't—don't look at me as—you do."

Rayton did not answer immediately.

"I couldn't do that," he said, after a brief but electrical silence. "Of course I could—but it would be harder for me than—than being shot every day of my life. I am rather a fool at pretending, I'm afraid. But if you say so, if you say I—I have no chance, then I'll clear out—at the double—without a kick!"

"It is because—because I care so for you—that I ask you to do these things," she whispered.

"'IT IS BECAUSE—BECAUSE I CARE SO FOR YOU—'"

The Englishman gasped, then trembled. He gazed at the young woman's straight, fur-clad back with an untranslatable illumination in his wide eyes. His lips moved, but uttered no sound. Then a brief, wondering smile beautified his thin face. He moved his shoulders on the pillow furtively. He leaned sideways, and stretched forth his hand. The strong, brown fingers touched a fold of the long fur coat, and closed upon it tenderly, but firmly. She neither turned nor moved.

"That curse is only a bad dream," he said, his voice gruff with the effort of speaking in a tone below a joyous shout. "There is no curse! Some misguided person is trying to make fools of us all. His game will be spoiled in a day or two. Why should we fear him?—whoever he is! I do not want to go away from you—even for a minute! I cannot hide my love for you. You would think me a poor sort of man if I could. I love you! I love you! I love you! Dearest—say that again!"

He pulled gently, half fearfully, on the fur coat. Nell turned slowly, and faced him. Her lips trembled, and her white throat fluttered. Two bright tears glinted on her cheeks, all unheeded—by her. He took note of them, however, and was enraptured with their beauty, as no fire and gleam of diamonds could have enraptured him. She smiled slowly, with parted, tremulous lips and shining eyes. She smiled at his illuminated, awe-stricken, yearning face. She looked down at the hand clasping the skirt of her coat so desperately.

"Do you care—so much?" she asked.

"I love you," he said gravely.

"I wonder why you love me! I am not—beautiful."

He pulled again, with a spasmodic jerk, on the fur coat.

"Beautiful!" he cried. "You? You are the most beautiful thing God ever made!"

"Reginald!" she protested, in a whisper, gazing down at his hand so as to hide her face from him.

He was full of courage now. Even love could not frighten him. Daring blazed in him.

"Kiss me—quick!" he whispered. "I hear Banks on the stairs! Quick!" He pulled at the coat, with fearless determination. For a fraction of a second she resisted; and then, sudden, impetuous, whole-hearted, she stepped forward, sank to her knees beside the bed, pressed her young breast to his unwounded shoulder, and her lips to his. He felt the moisture of her tears. The ascending Banks was forgotten.

"Hem! Ah—I beg your pardon!" exclaimed the New Yorker.

The girl was on her feet, and two yards away from the bed in a flash. Her cheeks and brow were crimson; but she faced the big sportsman with something of defiance in her attitude. Reginald Rayton neither moved nor spoke. He lay with his eyes closed, breathing quickly. Mr. Banks looked the most guilty of the three. He shuffled his feet. His glance fell before the glory and daring of the girl's face. He saw that it was beautiful, now absolutely beautiful, and he knew love to be the beautifier. He was abashed. For a few seconds he was utterly bereft of his usual aplomb. Had he been the inspiration of that light on her face and in her eyes, it is probable that he would have known exactly what to do. At last he advanced, bowed ponderously, and lifted one of her hands to his lips. Then he stepped over to the bed.

"Reginald, you have all the luck," he said. "I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. I'd take on the risks myself for—well, for one-tenth part of the reward."

Nell came back to earth—to the lower levels where lives are lived out, and fear stalks through sun and shadow.

"The risks! I had forgotten them," she whispered.

Mr. Banks completed his recovery at that. He turned to her, smiling, his capable, bland self again.

"If you are thinking of the card trick," he said, "I beg you to put it out of your mind forever. There is a fool working that card trick—and that is all it has to do with a curse. A fool is always a curse. So don't worry! Reginald is as safe as I am, for I'll have the mask off that fool, and the claws out of him before he can try any more of his mad games. All you have to do, my dear, is trust Harvey P. Banks—and love this calf, Reginald, I suppose."

"You are very, very kind," she answered gently, "and I hope and pray that you are right. I must go home now, or Kate will be anxious. Good-by, Mr. Banks. Good-by, Reginald."

When the New Yorker returned from letting Miss Harley out of the house, he sat down in a chair beside his friend's bed, lit a cigar, tilted his head far back, and smiled at the ceiling. For several minutes neither of the men spoke. Then Rayton said, in a nervous voice: "You don't think she'll catch cold going home, do you?"

"No, my soft and addled lover," replied Mr. Banks. "She is not at all likely to catch cold. She is wearing a long coat of mink skins, with other things inside it, no doubt. Her boots are thick; her gloves are lined with fur; her hat—ah, I am not sure of her hat. There is danger, of course, that the sky may fall down on her, or that a rail may fly off a fence and hit her on the head. But the chances are that she'll win home safely, and live until to-morrow."

"Those are not things to joke about," said Rayton reprovingly.

The other laughed long and hard. Then: "Right you are," he said. "Seriously, Reginald, I am sore with envy of you. I have lived a long time, in many cities of the world, and have known many women—but I give first prize to this girl of yours. I have loved many; but here, again, Nell Harley takes first honors."

"What? D'ye mean that you love her, too, H. P.?" asked the Englishman anxiously.

"Sure thing," replied the New Yorker. "What d'you think I am made of, anyway? D'you think I am blind, deaf, and heartless? Of course, I love her!—but you needn't glare at me, Reginald. I'm not running. I know when to sit down and do the delighted uncle act. That girl loves you; and, if I have learned anything in my varied career, she'll keep on loving you till the end of the game. You are a lucky dog, Reginald, and I give you my blessing."

"Thanks very much, H. P.," returned Rayton, with emotion. "I am a lucky chap, and no mistake!"

In the meantime, Nell Harley made a swift and glowing passage across the field. She found Kate in the sitting room.

"Is Mr. Rayton in a serious condition?" asked Kate. "Dear me, what a splendid color you have! You look really beautiful. What has happened?"

Nell began to laugh excitedly. She threw aside her gloves and mink-skin coat. She cut several unclassified dancing steps on the rug in front of the fire.

"What on earth is the matter with you?" demanded the young matron anxiously.

"Nothing," said Nell. "I kissed him—that is all."

"You kissed him? Good gracious! What for?"

"He told me to."

"Told you to?"

"Yes. Well, he asked me to. He—he said he would rather be shot through the shoulder every day of his life than go away from—me. He said he loved me—he said it over and over and over again. He says it is nonsense—all about that curse. So it is. Then, all of a sudden, I just——"

"Fell into his arms," interrupted the young matron.

"No, indeed! That would have hurt his shoulder. Anyway, he was in bed, and bandaged. I just didn't care about anything or anybody in the world except him—and then I kissed him. Then Mr. Banks came in—and caught us!"

"Nell!"

"And as soon as he recovered himself he kissed my hand, and congratulated Reginald, and promised to catch the man who shot him before he has a chance to shoot him again."

"Nell, you talk like—like a—I don't know what! You went away almost frightened to death about that marked card and the old family curse—and now you—you are absolutely brazen. I never heard you talk like this before. I never saw you act or look like this before. What will Jim say when he hears of it?"

"I don't care what Jim says," replied Nell. "He can keep on believing in that old curse if he chooses. Reginald is not afraid of it—so neither am I—now. It is wonderful to be loved like that, Kate!"

"Pooh! Teach your grandmother!" retorted Kate.

Nell's excitement soon passed, and fear stole back into her heart—fear that some new danger threatened the man she loved. And just as her love was greater now than it had been before that first kiss, so was the fear greater now. And her belief in the curse—the supernatural curse—of the marked card, returned to her. She remembered her father's adventure and tragic death. She went up to her own room, and knelt by the head of her own bed, as she had knelt at the head of Reginald Rayton's. But now she knelt to pray.

Things continued to happen at Rayton's house during the remainder of the day. Doctor Nash called just about noon, examined the wound, detected and treated a slight cold in the chest, and stayed to dinner. He helped Banks get dinner, and even made a show of drying the dishes afterward. He was evidently doing his best to forget his quarrel with the Englishman. Old Wigmore's accusation seemed to be worrying him considerably. He referred to it frequently, and even accounted for himself minutely during the season of his possession of the borrowed rifle. Rayton laughed at him.

"I know you didn't shoot me, so why explain?" said the Englishman.

"It is just as well to explain the thing. Old Wigmore has a poisonous tongue and a poisonous mind," returned the doctor. "I believe he is cracked."

Nash had not been gone more than an hour when Captain Wigmore himself appeared.

"I am lonely," said the old man, "and I am getting rather sick of doing my own cooking."

"Thought Fletcher did the cooking," said Mr. Banks.

"So he did; but he has gone away," replied Wigmore. "He cleared out some time or other night before last—the night you were shot, Reginald."

"Where for—and what for?" asked Banks, getting interested.

"He said, in a letter that he was good enough to leave behind him, that he is tired of me and of the backwoods, and can do better for himself in New York. I suppose he has set out for New York. He is a queer fish, you know, is old Timothy Fletcher. He has been with me for years, and has always been more trouble to me than comfort. But he was a handy man and a good cook. I am sorry he took it into his head to go just now. It makes it very awkward for me."

"Did he take anything with him?" asked the would-be detective.

"Only his own duds—and a little rye whisky."

"Where was he the afternoon and evening before his departure?"

"Where was he? Let me think. I am sure I can't say, Banks. Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. He seemed to me rather an interesting old codger. His manners were the worst I ever saw. I wonder what struck him to leave you so suddenly."

Captain Wigmore shrugged his neat shoulders and laughed harshly.

"Perhaps the poor old chap thought he would be suspected and accused of potting our young friend here," he suggested. "He is a prowler, you know. He frequently wanders 'round in the woods for hours at a time, and he usually carries firearms of some kind or other."

Mr. Banks leaned forward in his chair. "I never heard of Fletcher as a sportsman," he said. "But even so, how could he have heard of Reginald's accident? You say he was gone by morning—and it was not until morning that Goodine and I found Reginald. So there can't be anything in that suggestion of yours, captain."

"Very likely not," replied Wigmore. "I am not a detective and have no ambitions that way. All I know is that Timothy went away in a hurry, leaving a letter behind him in which he addressed me in very disrespectful terms."

"Is that all you know, captain?"

"Not quite, after all. I had a rifle—and it has vanished."

"Great heavens! You knew all this, and yet you accused Nash of having wounded Reginald!"

"Well, why not? Some one must have done it—and the circumstances are more against Nash than Fletcher. Nash had a score to settle with Reginald; but I do not think there was any bad blood between our friend and Timothy."

"But you say Timothy is queer?"

"Oh, yes, he is queer. Always has been. He is mad as a hatter—if you know how mad that is. I don't."

"What about the marked card?" asked Rayton. "Don't you think it is potent enough to pull a trigger without the help of either Nash or Fletcher?"

The old man laughed. "I am getting a bit weary of that card," he said. "Whoever is playing that trick is working it to death. And now that I come to think of it, it strikes me that I was the last person to receive those red marks. So why hasn't the curse, or whatever it is, struck me?"

"You were the last," replied Rayton, "but it was dealt to me that same evening."

"Bless my soul! D'you mean to say so?" exclaimed Wigmore. "That is interesting. It looks as if there is something in Jim's story, after all. Let me see! The marks were handed to Jim's father several times, weren't they? And he came to a sudden and violent death, didn't he? Of course it must be all chance, combined by somebody's idea of a joke—but it looks very strange to me. I don't like it. But why do you get the marks, Reginald? Are you sweet on Miss Harley?"

Rayton laughed—and his laughter was his only answer.

Banks and the captain played chess, and said nothing more about the marked cards or Timothy Fletcher. Captain Wigmore won all the games easily. Then he went home. Banks put the chessmen away, fixed the fires downstairs, and then returned to his seat by Rayton's bed. He sat for a long time in silence, with puckered brows.

"Queer thing about old Fletcher," said the Englishman.

"I believe you, my son," answered Mr. Banks. "It is so darned queer I guess it calls for investigation. Fletcher is an exceedingly rude old man—and his master is an exceedingly uneven old man."

"Yes. I don't understand either of them," admitted Rayton.

Banks raised his heels to the edge of the bed, leaned well back in his chair, and lit a cigar.

"Who tied old Fletcher to the poplar tree, d'you suppose?" he queried.

"Haven't the faintest idea."

"But I have," said the would-be detective. "I'm on a double track now. I'll have something to show you coming and going."