Rayton: A Backwoods Mystery

"PLUNGED AT RAYTON, WITH HIS FISTS FLYING"

"See here!" he exclaimed; "that—that's no way to do! Can't you fight fair? What did you hit me with?"

The Englishman lifted his right fist, and pointed at it with the index finger of his left hand.

"That is what I hit you with," he said in matter-of-fact tones. "But if you don't think that fair, I'll land my left next time."

"Don't trouble," replied Nash. "I'm no match for a professional prize fighter. That's not my line."

"Oh, cheer up! We've just begun."

"I've finished."

"In that case you can take back what you said about Jim Harley."

"What did I say?" asked the doctor, making a furtive step toward his trap.

Rayton advanced. "Quick!" he cried. "Call yourself a liar, or I'll try another prod at you!"

"Leave me alone. D—n you! I'll have the law on you for this. Keep off! Mind what you're about. Keep your distance, I say. Yes, yes! You're right. I'm a liar. I'm a liar!"

He jumped into his buggy, wakened Champion with a cut of the whip, and drove away at a gallop, leaving his hat and overcoat on the side of the road. For a minute Rayton stood and gazed after the bouncing vehicle. Then he picked up the hat and coat, and placed them on the top rail of the fence.

"That is the worst thing I ever saw in the way of a doctor," he said. "Most of them are mighty good fellows—and I didn't know before that any of them were quitters. But that chap? Why, he's a disgrace to a pill box. Hope he'll come back for his duds, though."

Mr. Reginald Baynes Rayton turned, and continued on his homeward way, swinging his feet well in front of him, and expanding his chest. But presently he lost the air of the conquering hero. Misgivings assailed him. He had picked a fight simply because he was in a bad temper. He had called a more or less harmless individual names, and then punched him in the jaw and forced him to call himself a liar.

"I'm ashamed of myself," he murmured. "What has become of my manners?"

He reached his house, and found Mr. Banks in the kitchen, still reflectively consuming tobacco.

"What's the matter with you, Reginald?" inquired the New Yorker. "You look excited."

"I am," replied Rayton, and told frankly but briefly of his talk with Jim Harley and of his fight with Nash.

"I am glad you punched Nash, for I don't like the animal," said Banks. "But why in thunder didn't you trim Harley first? He insulted you."

"He didn't mean to insult me. He believes in the potency of those red crosses. It is a matter of family pride with him," answered Rayton.

RAYTON IS REMINDED OF THE RED CROSSES

The snow vanished during the day, under the unseasonable glow of the sun; but with evening came a biting frost and a choking, quiet wind out of a clear sky. The next morning lifted bright and cold, with a glint of ice over all the wilderness, but not so much as a patch or tatter of snow anywhere.

Banks and Rayton breakfasted by lamplight, for they had planned a morning after ruffled grouse. The sun was just over the eastern forests when they stepped out from the warm kitchen to the frosted open, buttoned their fur-lined gloves, and turned up the collars of their blanket "jumpers." They separated at a spur of spruces and firs that thrust itself, like a green buttress, into the yellow-brown of a back pasture.

"You can have Turk. He may find you a belated woodcock or two," said Rayton.

So Banks swung to the left, and entered the forest, with the obedient, eager dog at his heels, and a trail of fragrant smoke drifting over his shoulder, pure blue in the sunshine.

Rayton entered the woods to the right. He walked carelessly through the underbrush, heedless of everything about him, and of the gun in the hollow of his arm, grieving over his conversation the day before with the brother of the woman he loved. Had Jim really expected him to behave like a coward—to run away from the marked cards? Had Jim no better opinion of him than that? He wondered if Nell knew that the cards had been dealt to him? And if so, how she felt about it? Had Jim told her of their heated argument, and of his—Rayton's—childish exhibition of temper? That would not strengthen his chances with her. And what would she think of him when she heard of his crude outbreak against Doctor Nash? He trembled at the question.

"Those red crosses may be my undoing, after all, in a sneaking roundabout way," he reflected.

A bird went whirring up from close in front of his trampling feet, and got safely away. He halted, leaned his gun against a tree, and lit his pipe.

"I must keep my wits about me," he said, "and stop worrying about those silly cards, or everything will get away from me—birds and everything."

He sat for about half an hour on a convenient stump in a patch of sunshine, smoking, and working himself into his usual happy state of mind. He dreamed of Nell Harley. He had visions of her—and he discovered a golden trail of thought, and followed it into a golden magical future. The cards, the argument with Jim, and the fight with Nash were all forgotten. At the end of the half hour he continued on his aimless way.

The lanes and little clearings of the forest were comfortably warm, for the sunlight filled them, and the wind was walled away from them. The peace of the frost-nipped, sun-steeped wilderness soothed and healed his spirit. He moved slowly, and halted frequently to spy out some twittering chickadee or flitting blue jay, to gaze up at the purple spires of the spruces, or down at some flaming, grotesquely shaped toadstool. He loved it all—every stump, shadow, sound, and soaring wall of it, every flickering wing and furtive call, every scent, tone, and silence.

He tramped onward, comforted, following his whim. At noon he halted beside a brown brook, twisting among cedars here, alders there. He had several thick slices of bread and butter in his pocket. He built a small fire at the edge of the stream, skinned, in woodman's style, a plump partridge that he had shot an hour before, broiled it to a turn, and dined to a wish. After his meal, he spent a dozing hour between the red fire and the brown stream, with the stem of his pipe between his teeth, and great dreams behind his eyes.

"This suits me," he murmured. "I'll make a day of it."

He got to his feet at last, picked up his gun, and followed the course of the stream downward, taking his time, and avoiding all tangles of underbrush and difficult places. He waked up several grouse, and got one clean shot. But he was not keen about making a bag. He was enjoying himself in quite another way. Had there been paper and pencil in his pocket, instead of feathers, crumbs of bread, and shreds of tobacco, it is more than likely he would have tried to write a poem; for Mr. Reginald Baynes Rayton was in love with a woman, and in love with nature on one and the same golden day. Everything was forgotten but the quiet, magical joy that steeped him to the soul.

It was about mid-afternoon when Rayton altered his course for home. He studied the sky and his compass, and then turned his back to the brown brook. He calculated that this line would take him out to Samson's Mill Settlement shortly after sunset.

An hour later Rayton was still far from home, and among tall timber and heavy underbrush. Red rays of sun flooded from the west, low and level, and became tangled and lost among the black screens of the forest. Rayton moved slowly, pushing his way through moosewood saplings. He halted, drew his compass from an inner pocket, and reassured himself as to his position.

And then, on the left, a rifle shot rang out, sharp and vicious. Rayton jumped, spun round on his heels, then dashed forward, shouting strongly and angrily. He heard the swishing and crackling of flight ahead of him. He halted, raised his fowling piece, and let fly both barrels. He bellowed murderous threats after the retreating, unseen sniper.

Then, quick as lightning, the strength went out of him. Voice and knees failed together, and he sank silently to the forest loam. So he lay for a minute, dizzy and faint, and stunned with wonder. In a dazed way he set all his senses on a vague inquiry, searching for pain. But he felt no pain—only a quick, strong pulsing in his left shoulder. He took note of this cloudily. Then, of a sudden, his brain cleared, and anxiety sprang alive in his heart.

He sat up, and put his right hand across his body. His shoulder—the thick blanket stuff that covered it—was wet and hot. He held his hand close to his eyes in the waning light, and saw that it was reeking red from finger tips to wrist. A gasp of dismay escaped him. Again he felt all about the wet place with his right hand. Now the blood was streaming down his arm. He discovered the wound—a tender spot, high up.

"I must stop it," he muttered. "It's working like a pump. If I don't plug it up, or tie it up, mighty quick, I'll be drained dry."

A vision of his bloodless corpse prone on the forest moss flashed across his mind. Then he set swiftly and cleverly to work to check the flow of blood. First, he made a thick pad of dry moss and a handkerchief, and bound it tightly over the wound with a silk scarf from his neck. Then he removed his elastic suspenders, and twisted them over his shoulder and under his armpit four times. The pulsing became fainter and fainter, and at last could not be felt at all.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed. "I do believe I've done the trick. Fine thing, these patent Yankee suspenders."

He got to his feet, swayed, and sat down again.

"I must have lost a quart or two," he muttered. "No head—no knees—no insides."

He sat very stiff for a little while in deep but meaningless thought. His mind felt like a feather—a puff of smoke—drifting dust. An impish wind was blowing it, and would not allow it to settle.

"This is queer," he said. "Is it loss of blood—or shock? Must do something."

He scrambled to his feet again, picked up his gun, and pressed forward a distance of about twenty yards. He felt a tickling in his shoulder again. It strengthened to a faint throbbing. The horror of bleeding to death returned to him with a grip on his heart. Pain he could struggle against, and perhaps dominate; but this was not pain. This was tender and warm—this flowing out of life.

He sat down again, and again the pulsing quieted and ceased. He saw that he must make a night of it in the woods, unless help came to him. He could not go forward in search of help. He must keep still—or bleed to death. He saw this very clearly, as if written in great white letters on a wall of blackness. And, more dimly, he saw the danger of freezing during the long, cold night. Though warmly clothed, he had no blanket or wrap of any kind.

Fire was the only thing at his command that could keep the frost away. Reaching about with his right hand, he pulled up a great quantity of dry moss. Then he shifted his position a little, and repeated the operation. His arm was feeling numb now, and he could not detect any hint of the pulsing sensation.

Twilight had deepened to night in the forest, and a still cold was creeping in from the vast overhead and the wide, empty portals of the north. Rayton felt about in the underbrush, and discovered plenty of dry fuel, some of it even lying detached upon the ground. He piled his brush and moss to one side of the irregular circle which he had cleared down to the rock and soil, working with the least possible effort. With his sheath knife he cut some living brush, some young spruces, and a few small saplings.

By this time, his left arm and side were aching dully, but his head felt steadier. He placed a bunch of moss, twigs, and larger sticks in the cleared space, and struck a match. The flame curled up, grew, crowned the dry heap, and painted the crowding walls of the forest with red, dancing shadows. There was no wind—nothing astir in the air but the drifting frost. The smoke of the fire went straight up toward the high, aching stars, and the heat spread around in a narrow circle. Rayton squatted close to the fire, and fed it with more dry sticks, and soon with some of the green wood.

A sudden drowsiness came to him with the soothing glow of the fire. He fought against it for a few minutes, and even nerved himself to crawl away and drag in a large half-rotted stump. He placed this valuable addition to his store of fuel fairly on the top of the fire, banked more dry stuff beneath and around it, and then lay down on his couch of moss. He felt comfortably warm, deliciously sleepy, and absolutely care free. The pain in his arm was almost as numb as the arm itself. He scarcely noticed it.

"This isn't so very bad, after all," he murmured. "So long as that pumping doesn't begin again, I really don't care."

He lay on his right side, deep in the dry moss, and gazed into the fire. He saw the red and yellow flames crawl up the flanks of the shattered and hollow stump.

"It will catch," he murmured. "It will be all right. That's—a good—fire. I'll just lie—here—and watch it—burn. Don't think I'd—better—go to sleep. Not sleepy—any—way."

And then his lids slid down; and in his dreams he continued to watch the red and yellow flames rise and fall, creep up, bring down, and mount again. He dreamed that he did not sleep, but lay and watched the fire crown the shattered stump and gnaw a dozen passages into its hollow heart. That was all of his dream. It was no more than a picture, as far as progress and action were concerned. It seemed to him that he lay deep in the dry moss, on his right side, with his eyes wide open. So, for a few minutes—and then the fire died down suddenly to blackness—so suddenly that he sat bolt upright, and uttered a cry of dismay.

It had been a dream. Rayton had dreamed the long night away, thinking himself awake; and now the cheerless gray of a November dawn was sifting through the forest. The fire was a patch of dead ashes. The air was bitterly cold. Rayton felt stiff and sore. His hands and feet were like ice. As he sank back upon his right elbow, a sharp pain stabbed him in the side. He groaned pitifully.

"This is worse than the bullet wound," he muttered. "And this is all my own fault for going to sleep."

His shoulder, fortunately, neither bled nor pained him. The blood in the pad of moss was dry. The arm was stiff, owing largely to the grip of the elastic suspenders and the bandages; but that was only to be expected. This hot pain in the side, however, leaping inward with every breath and movement, told him of a serious danger.

"I'll just warm myself a bit, and then get out," he said. "I must get out, this time!"

He managed to heap up an armful of moss and twigs, and set it alight. He crawled close to the quick flames, almost embracing the mound of smoke and fire. Little sparks flew out, and fell upon his heavy, frosted clothing, scorched for a little while, and then blinked to nothingness, unheeded. He piled on more fuel, and fairly breathed the heat into his lungs.

A shout rang strongly and hopefully through the silent forest. Rayton sat up weakly, and gazed around him. The light was dim, and he saw nothing but the soaring trees and crowding underbrush. He tried to shout—but his voice was no more than a whisper. He tried again, with desperate effort, and groaned with the hot agony that stabbed his lungs. He put more dry fuel on the fire, for here was a signal more sure to guide help to him than any outcry. Not content with this, however, he crawled to his gun, inserted a loaded cartridge, and discharged it into the ground; then crawled close to the fire again, lay prone, and made no struggle against waves of flashing color and gigantic sound that flowed over him, trampling him down, down fathoms deep.

When Rayton returned to the surface of that mighty tide, he discovered his head to be supported by a human shoulder and arm. A flask, gripped by a big, familiar hand, was against his lips. On the other side of the fire stood Dick Goodine, gazing across at him with haggard eyes. Among the trees, the daylight was stronger, and held a hint of sunshine. He sighed, and parted his lips, and the potent liquor from the tilting flask trickled down his throat and glowed within him.

"Thanks, you chaps," he muttered. "I'm mighty glad you found me."

"Drink some more," said Banks tenderly. "You feel like a block of ice. Swig away, there's a good fellow. Better be drunk than dead!"

Rayton took another big swallow of the stinging brandy. Then, reviving swiftly, he pushed the flask away.

"That's better," he said. "But I'm afraid I've caught a whacker of a cold. Let my fire go out, you know. Got shot—and built a fire—and went to sleep. Very foolish. How'd you happen to find me so soon? Good thing. My side feels like the devil!"

"You just keep quiet for a while longer," said Banks. "We're going to roll you up in this blanket, now, and feed you with hot beef tea."

Dick Goodine, who had not moved or spoken before, now passed around the fire, stooped, and took the Englishman's right hand in both of his.

"I'm almighty glad you—you are awake, Reginald," he said huskily.

Then he straightened himself quickly, and turned away.

They rolled Rayton in two blankets, and placed him on a deep couch of moss, close to the fire. They bared his feet, and rubbed them to a glow. They filled him to the neck with scalding beef tea, strongly laced with brandy. They built up the fire, until it roared like a burning hay barn. Banks cut away the left sleeve of the blanket jumper, removed some of the dry blood, and examined the wound.

"Clean as a whistle!" he exclaimed. "In here and out there. That is nothing to worry about, I guess—now that it has stopped bleeding."

Goodine examined the shoulder in silence, and looked tremendously relieved to see so clean a wound. Banks loosened the pinch of the elastic suspenders over and under the shoulder. Then he put on fresh bandages.

"How is the side feeling now?" he asked.

The Englishman smiled and nodded, mumbled some ghosts of words, and then, under the spell of the beef tea and brandy inside him, and the heat of the fire on his body, sank again to sleep. For a few minutes his two friends sat and watched him in silence. Dick Goodine was the first to speak.

"D'ye think he'll pull 'round all right?" he whispered.

"Of course he'll pull 'round," replied the New Yorker. "He is as strong as a horse, and the bullet wound is not serious. His blood is clean, thank Heaven!—as clean as his heart. He has got cold right into his bones; but if the heat will drive out cold, I guess we'll thaw him, Dick. Now is the time to try, anyway, before it gets set. We'll keep the fire roaring. And in half an hour we'll wad more hot drinks into him. We'll drive that pain out of his side, or bust!"

The trapper nodded, his dark eyes fixed upon Rayton's quiet face with a haunted and mournful regard.

"We'll take him home before night," continued Mr. Banks; "and then we'll go gunning for the skunk who tried to murder him!"

"You bet we will!" replied Goodine huskily.

CAPTAIN WIGMORE SUGGESTS AN AMAZING THING

Rayton's chest and side felt much better when he awoke from his second deep sleep by the fire. It was noon; and though the air was frosty, the sun was shining. Mr. Banks administered more beef tea to him, piping hot.

"How did you happen to find me so soon?" asked the Englishman.

"Thank Dick for that," said Banks. "He dragged me out of bed before dawn. He heard the shooting last night; but didn't think much about it then. But when he learned that you had been out all day he began to worry."

Dick Goodine nodded.

"That's right," he said. "The more I thought over them two shots, an' the yellin' I heard, the queerer it all seemed to me."

"Did you see any one, Reginald?" asked Banks. "Do you know who plugged you—or can you make a guess?"

Rayton shook his head. "I didn't see anything," he replied—"not even the flash of the rifle. No, I can't guess. It was all so sudden!—and I was so dashed angry and surprised, you know! I let fly with both barrels—and then I fell down. Blood was just spurting, you know. I felt very weak—and mad enough to chew somebody."

"So you fired the second shot, did you?" queried Banks.

"Yes. I only hope I peppered the dirty cad. Of course, it may not have been intentional. I haven't thought it out yet. Whoever fired the shot may have mistaken me for a moose or deer. But it is pretty hard lines, I think, if a chap can't walk through the woods without being sniped at by some fool with a rifle."

"That's what set me wonderin'—that second shot," said the trapper. "I was a durned idjit, though! I might er known there wasn't any strangers shootin' 'round this country now—any of the kind that hollers like all git-out every time they hit something—or think they do. But I was a good ways off, an' late, so I just kept hikin' along for home."

"That's all right, old boy," said Rayton. "No harm done, I think. But are you sure there are no strangers in the woods now? Who do you think shot me, then?"

"Certainly not a stranger!" exclaimed the New Yorker. "You may bet on that, Reginald. The murderous, sneaking, white-livered skunk who shot you is the same animal who set fire to young Marsh's camp—the same vicious fool who is at the bottom of all this marked-card business."

"Great heavens!" exclaimed the Englishman. "Do you really believe that? Then the card trick is getting pretty serious. What do you think about it, Dick?"

"It beats me!" said Dick, in a flat voice. "I don't know—an' I can't guess. It's a mighty nasty-lookin' business, that's all I can say. Looks to me like a job for the police."

"Not yet!" cried Rayton. "I can look after myself. Promise me to keep quiet about it, will you? That will give us a chance to look 'round a bit for ourselves. We don't want to start the whole country fussing about."

"But what about Nash?" asked Mr. Banks. "He is bound to know. You'll have to tell him how you came by the puncture in your shoulder."

"That is all right. It is only a flesh wound, and clean as a whistle. I don't need Nash."

"We'll not argue about that, Reginald," returned Banks. "Here, drink this brandy, and then we'll start for home with you. I am bossing this show."

Two hours and twenty minutes later they had Rayton comfortably tucked away between the warm sheets of his own bed. His two stalwart friends had carried him every yard of the way, in a blanket, and he had not suffered from the journey. Banks unbandaged his shoulder, and examined the wound. He washed it in warm water, and moved the arm gently. The blood began to flow freely. He bound the shoulder tightly, and nodded to the trapper.

"Where are you going?" asked Rayton, as Dick opened the door.

"For Doctor Nash," answered Dick, and the door slammed behind him.

Dick saddled one of the horses, and rode off at a gallop. He was lucky to find the doctor at home in the farmhouse where he boarded. He delivered his message briefly, but clearly. Nash rubbed his hands together, and informed the trapper that there was another doctor at Bird Portage, twenty miles away. When asked to explain this remark, he blustered and swore, and at last said frankly that Rayton could bleed to death for all he cared.

"If you don't come peaceful an' quiet," said Goodine slowly, "then—by hell!—you'll come the other way!"

Their eyes met, and flared for a second or two. Then Nash wavered.

"I'll come," he said.

"I'll wait for you," said the trapper. "Git a move on."

When they reached Rayton's house they found old Captain Wigmore in the sitting room, smoking a cigar and smiling sardonically. Nash went upstairs, but Wigmore beckoned the trapper to him.

"I've wormed it out of them," he said. "I know all about it; and that means that I know a good deal more about it than you do."

"What? More about what?" asked Goodine anxiously.

"Just this, my good trapper of foolish beasts! Nash is the man who put the hole through the Englishman's shoulder!"

Dick stared. At last he regained the use of his tongue.

"You're cracked!" he exclaimed. "Nash didn't do it!"

"What do you know about it?"

"Well, I guess I know that much, anyhow."

"Then who did it?"

"Don't know."

"But I do. You keep your eye on Nash when I tackle him. Then you'll know."

Dick shook his head.

"I guess not," he murmured, and went upstairs, leaving the captain alone with his thin smile and long cigar.

"I do believe that old crow has a slat loose," reflected the trapper. "I'd give a good lot to know what he's truly thinking about, anyhow."

Doctor Nash, after brief greetings, set to work on Rayton's wounded shoulder. He made a close examination, but asked no questions. He worked swiftly for about half an hour.

"That's done," he said. "All you have to do now is to keep still for a while." He paused and turned to Banks. "Has he been insulting and assaulting somebody else lately?" he asked.

"Don't know," returned the New Yorker. "Why?"

"Just an idea of mine," replied Nash. "Some men are not as good-natured as I am, you know. Somebody took a shot at him—and I was just wondering why. It does not often happen 'round here."

"You are the only person I have behaved like that to," said Rayton, "and—and—well, I am dashed sorry I lost my temper. I beg your pardon, Nash. I am very sorry, honestly. I behaved like a cad."

"You should have thought of that before," sneered Nash.

At that moment old Captain Wigmore entered the room on the tips of his neat little toes, smiling behind his whiskers.

"I see you've brought your company manners with you," said Nash. "I thought you saved them up for the ladies." He had the old fellow on his black list.

"Is that you, doctor?" returned the captain pleasantly. "So you have been patching up this young man, I see. What do you think of your work?"

"Of my work? Oh, I guess my work is good enough. Have you anything to say about it?"

"Why, yes, now that you ask me. Five or six inches to the side would have done the job. Why didn't you do it when you were at it?"

Dick Goodine guessed what was coming; but the other three stared at the old man in frank amazement. Nash looked bewildered.

"Six inches?" he queried. "Done the job? What the devil are you talking about?"

"There are none so blind as those who won't see," replied Wigmore, leering.

"What d'you mean? What are you grinning at?"

"Don't get excited, doctor. Bluster and bluff don't frighten me." He stepped close to Rayton. "Who d'you think put that hole through your shoulder, Reginald?" he asked.

"Haven't the least idea. Wish I had," replied the invalid.

"Dear me! What a dull young man you are," jeered Wigmore.

"Don't follow you," said the Englishman.

"Same here," said Banks.

Captain Wigmore chuckled. "I don't suppose you have an enemy anywhere within five hundred miles of here?" he queried.

"Not to my knowledge," said Rayton.

"Then why did you and Nash fly at each other day before yesterday, in the middle of the road? Why did you knock your dear friend flat in the mud?"

"Oh, give us a rest!" exclaimed Nash, flushing darkly, and scowling at the old man.

"That was nothing more than—than a sudden explosion of bad temper," said Rayton.

Wigmore nodded his head briskly, and turned to the doctor.

"And I noticed," he said, "that you did not wait to be knocked down a second time. You hopped into your rig, and drove away at top speed. He who fights and runs away—ah?"

"Really, captain, what is the necessity of all this?" protested Mr. Banks.

Wigmore waved his hand toward the big New Yorker, as if at a fly that had buzzed in his ear. His keen, glinting eyes were fixed with a terrible, rejoicing intentness upon Doctor Nash.

"What were you doing in the woods yesterday afternoon?" he asked.

"Confound you!" cried Nash furiously. "What are you talking about? What do you mean to imply? You skinny little runt, you must be mad!"

Wigmore laughed with a sound like the clattering together of dry bones. Mr. Banks gripped him roughly by a thin, hard arm.

"Enough of this!" cried the big sportsman. "Either speak out like a man, or shut up!"

"Very good," returned the captain, with another mirthless laugh. "All I want to know is what Doctor Nash was doing in the woods to the west of here yesterday afternoon, with a rifle. What game were you after, doctor? I have always heard that you were not very keen on that kind of sport."

"I wasn't in the woods!" cried Nash. "You are a liar!"

"Don't call me a liar, please," protested the old man. "It is Benjamin Samson who is the liar, in this case. He told me that you borrowed his rifle yesterday, just before noon, and struck into the woods."

Nash gasped, and his face faded to the sickly tint of a tallow candle. He stared wildly at Wigmore, then wildly around at the others. He opened and closed his mouth several times noiselessly, like a big fish newly landed on the bank. But at last his voice returned to him suddenly and shrilly.

"I forgot!" he cried. "I was out yesterday—with Samson's rifle—after all. But what about it? Why shouldn't I go shooting if I want to? This is a free country! But I know what you are—trying to make Rayton think—you dirty little gray badger! You are hinting that I shot him! I'll have the law on you for this, you—you——"

"I'll not wait to hear the rest of it, though it is sure to be apt and picturesque," said the captain, flashing his dazzling "store" teeth. "Good-by, Reginald, Good-by, all. See you to-morrow."

He bowed, skipped from the room, and hurried downstairs, and out of the house. Doctor Nash sprang after him to the top of the stairs, trembling and stuttering with rage; but he did not go any farther. He turned, after a moment or two, and re-entered the room. He strode up to the bed.

"Do you believe that?" he cried. "Do you believe that I shot you, Reginald Rayton?"

"Certainly not," replied Rayton promptly. "You wouldn't be such a fool as to borrow a rifle to do it with, even if you wanted to kill me."

Nash turned upon Banks and Dick Goodine.

"And you two?" he cried. "Do you think that I tried to murder Rayton? That I fired that shot?"

Dick Goodine, who stood by the window, with his face averted, answered with a silent shake of the head. Mr. Banks did not let the question pass so lightly, however. For several seconds he gazed steadily, keenly, inquiringly into Nash's angry eyes. He was very cool and ponderous. The scene suggested to Reginald Rayton the judgment of a mortal by a just but inexorable god. Only his ever-ready sense of politeness kept him from smiling broadly. Nash glared, and began to mutter uneasily. At last the big New Yorker spoke.

"Circumstances are against you, Nash," he said slowly. "Nobody can deny that. There is bad blood between you and Reginald. Reginald loses his temper, and gives you a trimming. On the following day you borrow a rifle, and go into the woods, and that evening the man who punched you in the jaw is shot through the shoulder. It looks bad, Nash—mighty bad! But—keep quiet!—but, in spite of appearances, I don't think you are the guilty person."

"Then why the devil didn't you say so before?" cried the doctor, trembling.

"Calm yourself," replied Mr. Banks, "and I'll try to explain to you my reasons for naming you guiltless. In the first place, I believe you to be a touch above shooting a man in the dark. Whatever you may be in yourself, your profession would make you better than that. In the second place, I don't think that you have any hand in the game of the marked cards—and I am quite sure that the person who marks those cards knows who put the hole through Reginald's shoulder."

Nash looked startled.

"I forgot about that!" he exclaimed. "Rayton told me that the card was dealt to him—and then the—the subsequent argument we had kind of put it out of my head."

Banks smiled. "Quite so. I don't wonder at it," he said. "But tell me, do you still believe Jim Harley to be at the bottom of the card trick?"

Nash shot a glance at the bandaged man in the bed. "I do," he replied. "I stick to that until some one proves it untrue, though every man in this room gives me a punch in the jaw. It is a free country, and I have a right to my opinion."

"Of course you have," agreed the New Yorker; "but I'll show you the real trickster within two days from now. In the meantime, I shall keep my suspicions and plans to myself."

Early that evening the snow began to fall, and by breakfast the next morning it lay a foot deep over the frozen wilderness. Mr. Banks prepared his own breakfast and Rayton's, and they ate together in Rayton's room. Banks was washing the dishes in the kitchen when Dick Goodine opened the door, and stepped inside.

"I'm off," said the trapper. "If I don't get busy pretty quick, I won't have one fox skin to show, come spring."

He went upstairs, treading noiselessly as a bobcat, in his snowy moccasins, shook hands with Rayton, asked considerately about the shoulder, and then went out into the white world.

"I like that man," said Banks. "He's true blue."

"Right you are," replied the Englishman.

The last pan was cleaned and put away, when Banks was aroused from deep thought by a faint knocking on the front door. He pulled down the sleeves of his shirt, wriggled into his coat, made a hurried pass at the thin hair on top of his head, with a crumb brush, then took his way decorously along the hall, wondering who the formal caller might be. He opened the door, and found Nell Harley in the little porch. Her clear face was flushed vividly, and her clear eyes were wide with anxiety.

Mr. Banks mastered his astonishment before it reached his eyes.

"Come in! Come in!" he exclaimed. "This is delightful of you, Miss Harley."

He seized one of her gloved hands, drew her into the narrow hall, and closed the door.

"Jim started for one of his camps—early this morning—before we heard," she said. "So I have come to—to see Mr. Rayton. Is—he very—ill?"

"Ill!" repeated Mr. Banks cheerfully. "My dear young lady, he is fit as a fiddle. We broke up his cold yesterday, you know, and the scratch on his shoulder is nothing. Please come in here. I'll just touch a match to the fire."

"Where is Mr. Rayton?" she asked, as he stooped to light the fire in the sitting-room stove.

"Oh, he's at home. I'll tell him you are here."

"I'm sure he is in bed."

"Well, so he is. It is the safest place to keep him, you know, for he is always getting into trouble."

"I—I want to see him—to speak to him," she whispered.

"Then wait a minute, please. I'll run upstairs and try to make him look pretty," said Mr. Banks.

When Miss Harley entered Rayton's bedroom, she found the invalid sitting up against a stack of pillows, smiling cheerfully, slightly flushed, his shoulders draped with a scarlet blanket. He extended his hand. She drew off her gloves, and took it firmly. Neither spoke for fully half a minute. Mr. Banks left the room, light on his feet as a prowling cat.

"It is the curse," she said, at last, unsteadily. "When you are strong again you—you must go away."

"Am I really in danger?" he asked very softly. "Under the old conditions of the curse, you know?"

Her eyes wavered.

"Your life has been attempted," she whispered.

"I mean to stay," he replied, somewhat breathlessly, "until that curse has done its worst on me—or until you love me!"

FEAR FORGOTTEN—AND RECALLED

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."

MR. BANKS IS STUNG

Mr. Banks went over to the Harley place early on the morning after Nell's visit, with a note from Reginald Rayton. The contents of the note seemed to delight and comfort the girl. Banks saw violets on the sitting-room table. He stared at them in astonishment. Mrs. Jim Harley caught the look and laughed.

"They belong to Nell," she said. "Captain Wigmore brought them last night. I am sure he sent all the way to Boston for them."

"Wigmore, too," remarked Banks reflectively. "Well, we are all in the same boat."

He remained for half an hour, and then went home with a fat missive for Reginald, from Nell, in his pocket. The letter threw the Englishman into a foolish glow. For a whole hour after reading it he lay without a word and grinned.

Banks went for a walk in the afternoon, and met Captain Wigmore. The captain wore a new, fur-lined overcoat. His whiskers were brushed to the last hair, and his manner was as dazzlingly polished as his false teeth. He walked jauntily. The two exchanged a few commonplaces very agreeably. Then Banks, prompted by a sudden inspiration, went to the house of one Silas Long and engaged the eldest son of the family, Billy Long, aged sixteen, to live at Rayton's for a month and attend to the wood and the stock. He made the arrangements in Rayton's name. He told the lad to put in an appearance before sunset, and then went home. He explained this move to Reginald by saying frankly that he wanted to be absolutely free to solve the mysteries upon which he was engaged. The Englishman had no objections.

Mr. Banks left the house again right after the evening meal. It was a clear, starlit night. He walked slowly toward Captain Wigmore's dwelling, and within a few yards of the gate came face to face with the captain.

"Hello!" exclaimed Wigmore. "Is that you, Banks? Are you coming to see me?"

"No, I was just strolling 'round for a bit of fresh air," replied Banks.

"Well, I am glad of that. I have an engagement for the evening."

"An engagement—in Samson's Mill Settlement! You seem to lead a gay life, captain."

Wigmore chuckled. The New Yorker turned, and the two walked side by side along the snowy road for a short distance. Then Banks said: "I'll leave you now, captain, and cut home through the woods. Hope you'll have a pleasant evening."

"I look forward to a very entertaining one," replied the old man, chuckling.

Banks left the road, climbed a fence, and strode along through dry snow that reached halfway to his knees. He was in a pasture dotted with clumps of young spruce.

"The conceited old idiot!" he muttered. "I see his game. I'll fix him!"

He halted, behind a thicket, and stood motionless for a few minutes, listening intently. Then he made a wide half circle to the right, and soon came out again upon the beaten road but now about a quarter of a mile beyond the captain's house. His feet were cold and he stamped vigorously on the road to warm them. The night was windless, but bitter.

Mr. Banks advanced stealthily toward the dark house. Not a glimmer of light showed in any window. He opened the front gate cautiously, closed it cautiously behind him, and went furtively up the narrow path between the snow-banked lawns. On the step of the little front porch he paused and listened. Then he grasped the knob of the outer door and turned it. The door opened noiselessly.

He entered the narrow porch and stood with his ear against the inner door. He could not hear anything. He fumbled for the knob, found it, and learned that the inner door was locked. He hunted under the mat and in every corner of the porch for the key, having heard somewhere that keys were sometimes hidden away in just such foolish places. He did not find it. Again he listened at the door, this time with his ear against the keyhole. The house was silent as a tomb.

He left the porch, closed the outer door, and made his way to the left along the front of the house and around the corner to the woodshed. Knowing that he could not possibly avoid leaving a trail in the snow, he shuffled his feet so as to make it an unreadable one. He did this so artfully that not one clear impression of his big New York hunting boots was left in his path. He opened the door of the shed without a check and felt his way between piles of stove wood to the door of the kitchen.

"I don't feel respectable," he murmured. "But I'll feel a darned sight worse if any one finds me sneaking 'round like this. I must get in, though, and have a look 'round."

The kitchen door was fastened tight. Banks twisted the knob this way and that, all in vain. In spite of his coonskin coat and fur cap he was beginning to feel extremely chilly. He promised himself a husky pull at a bottle of some kind or other should he ever manage to break into the house. He left the shed and tried a back window. He could not get a hold on the sash, however. He drew a heavy clasp knife from his pocket and forced the strong blade between the sill and the bottom of the sash. In this way he pried the sash up almost half an inch. The window had not been fastened. He returned to the shed, and after a few minutes of fumbling about in the darkness he found an axe. By using the thick blade of the axe in place of the knife he soon had the window on the move. He propped up the sash, put the axe back in its place, and returned to the window. With a shove of his right hand he forced it up to the top. This done, he paused for a moment and stood with every sense and nerve on the alert. He heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing.

"I wonder if my little idea is the right one," he murmured. "I wonder what I shall find."

He put his gloved hands on the sill, hoisted himself, tipped forward, and wriggled through the window into the dark and silent room. His hands touched the floor first. He pulled his legs across the ledge and was about to stand straight when his knife slipped from the pocket of his coat and clattered on the floor. Still crouched low, he groped forward, found the knife—and then!

It seemed to Harvey P. Banks that he had been asleep a long, long time on a very uncomfortable bed in a very stuffy room. The greatest trouble with the bed must be in the arrangement of the pillows, he reflected, for his neck was terribly stiff and sore. He did not open his eyes right away. There was a feeling in his head and eyes—yes, and in his mouth—suggestive of other awakenings, in the years of his gay youth. So he lay with his eyes closed, remembering that a too sudden opening of the lids under certain once familiar conditions was decidedly unpleasant. He tried to get his wits into line. Where was he? Where had he been last night? What had he been drinking? His poor head only throbbed in answer. So, at last, very cautiously, he raised his heavy lids. He gazed upon darkness—against utter darkness on every side. No. Directly above his head was a faint sheen of gray. That was a window, no doubt; but what was a window doing above his head? That beat him, and he closed his eyes again and tried hard to remember things. The far-away past came clearly to him; but that did not help him. He knew that the things he remembered were of months—even of years—ago.

He was surprised to find that he wore heavy, fur-lined gloves, a fur cap pulled low over his ears and forehead, and a coonskin coat. He put out his right hand and touched a wall of ice-cold dusty floor. He judged that the floor was not more than six inches below the level of his body. He put out his left hand and touched a wall of ice-cold plaster. With a grunt of dawning dismay he sat up, and though his neck ached, and his head spun and throbbed with the effort, he leaned forward and touched his feet with his gloved hands. He felt his heavy shooting boots and a flake or two of pressed snow on their soles—and at that his brain awoke and the memory of his informal entrance into Captain Wigmore's house flashed clear. He uttered a low cry of wonder and consternation.

"What happened?" he whispered. "Did I fall and stun myself as I climbed over the window sill?"

His head behaved so badly at this point that he lay prone again on his hard couch. But now his brain was working clearly, though painfully. Every incident of his attempt to enter the house, with a view to reading the mystery which he was sure it contained, was now as plain as a picture before his inner vision. He reviewed the whole adventure minutely, from the meeting with Wigmore to the opening of the window and the dropping of the knife upon the floor of the pitch-black room. But what had happened after that? Something sudden—and hard! Yes, there could be no doubt of the suddenness and hardness of the next occurrence. But what was it? Had he toppled forward and struck his head against a piece of furniture? Or had something possessed of individual initiative hit him over the head? He sat up again, removed his gloves and cap, and felt all over his head with chilly, inquiring fingers. He could not find any lump or cut; but the back and top of the head were agonizingly tender to the touch.

"A sandbag—whatever that is," he muttered. "I have heard that they effect one somewhat in this way, if properly applied."

He laughed shortly and painfully. His head seemed to have recovered something of its normal position and balance. It felt more solid and steady, and the ache in it was duller. He fumbled through the pockets of his fur coat and found a pipe, tobacco pouch, and box of matches. His clasp knife was not there. Evidently he had not succeeded in picking it up, that time.

"Sorry for that," he muttered. "I could carve my way out of any place with that knife."

He opened the fur coat, and found the contents of his inner pockets intact—his watch, cigar case, three rifle cartridges, the stub of a pencil, a few pocket-worn letters, and a railway timetable. He knew each article by the feel of it. He opened the match box, and was glad to discover that it was full. Then he took out his watch and lit a match. The hands of the watch marked the time as half-past two—and the fact that the watch had not run down proved to him that the hour was of the early morning. He had lain unconscious more than five hours. He wound the watch and returned it to his pocket. Then he struck another match, held it high, and gazed inquiringly around him. The match was of wax, and held its flame for nearly half a minute. He saw a small room, white and bare of walls, bare of floor, with a sloping ceiling, broken by the square of a little skylight. The only article of furniture in the place was a narrow couch upon which he sat. A door of unpainted spruce divided the wall at that end of the room where the ceiling reached its greatest height.

Harvey P. Banks dropped the butt of the match to the floor and rubbed the spark out of it with his foot. He knew that he was in some one's attic; and he felt almost equally sure that it was the attic of Captain Wigmore's house. But who had hit him over the head and then carried him up and deposited him in this place? He had his suspicions, of course. Perhaps the captain had sandbagged him. The old man might easily have returned to the house immediately after parting with him on the road. Or Timothy Fletcher? Why not Timothy Fletcher? Wigmore had been lying when he said that Fletcher had run away to New York. Banks had felt sure of that at the time the statement was made—and now he felt doubly sure of it. Very likely they had both taken a hand in the game. Neither one of them by himself could have carried Harvey P. Banks up to the garret.

Mr. Banks felt cold and sleepy and sore. The soreness was of spirit as well as of body and head. He had certainly made a mess of things. And he felt anxious—decidedly anxious. Who was to make the next move? And what was the next move to be? He would have paid high to find himself snug and safe in his own bed in Reginald Rayton's house. What was Reginald thinking? But he had proved one thing! He had proved, beyond a doubt, that the inmates of Captain Wigmore's house were mysterious and undesirable persons.

He lit a cigar, lay back on his hard couch, and smoked reflectively. His head was not yet steady enough to allow of action. After an inch or two of the cigar had turned to ash, he sat up and got noiselessly to his feet. He had not heard a sound since recovering consciousness. Perhaps the house was empty? He lit a match and tiptoed to the door. He turned the knob cautiously. The door was locked.

"I guess it's not my turn yet," he murmured, and went back to the couch. He drew his cap down about his ears, fastened his fur coat up to the chin, and lay flat on his broad back. But before the cigar was finished he was on his feet again. He lifted the couch and placed it with his head against the door. Then he extinguished the butt of the cigar, lay down, and went to sleep.

Mr. Banks awoke suddenly. He was stiff and cold, but every sense was on the alert. His head felt much better than it had before his sleep. The room was full of gray light that filtered down from the snow-veiled window in the roof. He looked at his watch. It was seven o'clock. He listened intently, but could not hear a sound.

"I can see well enough now to take a hand in the game," he said. "So I guess it is my turn to play."

He lifted the cot away from the door and set it down at one side without a sound. Then he raised his right leg, drew his knee well back, presented the heel of his big boot at the lock of the door, and drove it forward with all the strength of his great hip and thigh. The lock burst, and fell in fragments; and the door, having been constructed so as to open inward, split, and tore itself from its hinges and flapped wide. Thick muscles had bested thin iron in a single effort.

"There! Confound you!" exclaimed Mr. Banks, staggering a little to recover the balance of his big body. He saw, beyond the gaping and twisted door, by the feeble light from his own room, a dark, bare hall and the unpainted rails around the top of a narrow staircase. He advanced one foot across the threshold, stooped forward, and listened intently. His big body, in its big coat of coonskins, filled the width of the doorway and shut out much of the feeble illumination that descended from the skylight behind and above him. So he stood for a minute or two before he heard a sound save that of his own breathing. And then! What is that? A single, furtive tap, as of something hard on a thin edge of wood, close in front of him. He turned sideways on the threshold so as to let the light from behind him reach the floor in front.

What was that, thin and black, slanting up at him between the rounds of the railing? It had a sinister look. It did not move. Behind it was the black gulf of the stairway. Mr. Banks hesitated for a moment, then began to edge forward.

"Stop where you are!" commanded a voice—the voice of old Captain Wigmore. "This thing is the barrel of a rifle. I am behind the rifle. If I press on the trigger, my dear Banks, I am sure to hit you somewhere, you are so unnecessarily large. In the belly, most likely. That's right! Stand still."

"You, Wigmore!" exclaimed the New Yorker. "What is the meaning of this? What are you talking about? You must be stark mad!"