Eve watched him slouching off into the woods, followed sullenly by Berry. Then she looked down at the dead man in silence.
"Be you ready, Eve?" grunted Chase.
She turned with a heavy heart to the home trail; but hermind was passionately with Clinch in the spectral forests of Drowned Valley.
And Clinch's mind was on her. All else—his watchfulness, his stealthy advance—all the alertness of eye and ear, all the subtlety, the cunning, the infinite caution—were purely instinctive mechanics.
Somewhere in this flooded twilight of gigantic trees was José Quintana. Knowing that, he dismissed that fact from his mind and turned his thoughts to Eve.
Sometimes his lips moved. They usually did when he was arguing with God or calling his Creator's attention to the justice of his case. Histwocases—each, to him, a cause célèbre; the matter of Harrod; the affair of Quintana.
Many a time he had pleaded these two causes before the Most High.
But now his thoughts were chiefly concerned with Eve—with the problem of her future—his master passion—this daughter of the dead wife he had loved.
He sighed unconsciously; halted.
"Well, Lord," he concluded, in his wordless way, "my girlie has gotta have a chance if I gotta go to hell for it. That's sure as shootin'.... Amen."
At that instant he saw Quintana.
Recognition was instant and mutual. Neither man stirred. Quintana was standing beside a giant hemlock. His pack lay at his feet.
Clinch had halted—always the mechanics!—close to a great ironwood tree.
Probably both men knew that they could cover themselves before the other moved a muscle. Clinch's small, light eyes were blazing; Quintana's black eyes had become two slits.
Finally: "You—dirty—skunk," drawled Clinch in his agreeably misleading voice, "by Jesus Christ I got you now."
"Ah—h," said Quintana, "thees has happen ver' nice like I expec'.... Always I say myse'f, yet a little patience, José, an' one day you shall meet thees fellow Clinch, who has rob you.... I am ver' thankful to the good God——"
He had made the slightest of movements: instantly both men were behind their trees. Clinch, in the ferocious pride of woodcraft, laughed exultingly—filled the dim and spectral forest with his roar of laughter.
"Quintana," he called out, "you're a-going to cash in. Savvy? You're a-going to hop off. An' first you gotta hear why. 'Tain't for the stuff. Naw! I hooked it off'n you; you hooked it off'n me; now I got it again.That'sall square.... No, 'tain'tthatgrudge, you green-livered whelp of a cross-bred, still-born slut! No! It's becuz you laid the heft o' your dirty little finger onto my girlie. 'N' now you gotta hop!"
Quintana's sinister laughter was his retort. Then: "You damfool Clinch," he said, "I got in my pocket what you rob of me. Now I kill you, and then I feel ver' well. I go home, live like some kings; yes. But you," he sneered, "you shall not go home never no more. No. You shall remain in thees damn wood like ver' dead old rat that is all wormy.... Hé! I got a million dollaire—five million franc in my pocket. You shall learn what it cost to rob José Quintana! Unnerstan'?"
"You liar," said Clinch contemptuously, "I got them jools in my pants pocket——"
Quintana's derisive laugh cut him short: "I give you thee Flaming Jewel if you show me you got my gems in you pants pocket!"
"I'll show you. Lay down your rifle so's I see the stock."
"First you, my frien' Mike," said Quintana cautiously.
Clinch took his rifle by the muzzle and shoved the stock into view so that Quintana could see it without moving.
To his surprise, Quintana did the same, then coolly stepped a pace outside the shelter of his hemlock stump.
"You show me now!" he called across the swamp.
Clinch stepped into view, dug into his pocket, and, cupping both hands, displayed a glittering heap of gems.
"I wanted you should know who's gottem," he said, "before you hop. It'll give you something to think over in hell."
Quintana's eyes had become slits again. Neither man stirred. Then:
"So you are buzzard, eh, Clinch? You feed on dead man's pockets, eh? You find Sard somewhere an' you feed." He held up the morocco case, emblazoned with the arms of the Grand Duchess of Esthonia, and shook it at Clinch.
"In there is my share.... Not all. Ver' quick, now, I take yours, too——"
Clinch vanished and so did his rifle; and Quintana's first bullet struck the moss where the stock had rested.
"You black crow!" jeered Clinch, laughing, "—I need that empty case of yours. And I'm going after it.... But it's because your filthy claw touched my girlie that you gotta hop!"
Twilight lay over the phantom wood, touching with pallid tints the flooded forest.
So far only that one shot had been fired. Both men were still manœuvring, always creeping in circles and always lining some great tree for shelter.
Now, the gathering dusk was making them bolder and swifter; and twice, already, Clinch caught the shadow of a fading edge of something that vanished against the shadows too swiftly for a shot.
Now Quintana, keeping a tree in line, brushed with his lithe back a leafless moose-bush that stood swaying as he avoided it.
Instantly a stealthy hope seized him: he slipped out of his coat, spread it on the bush, set the naked branches swaying, and darted to his tree.
Waiting, he saw that the grey blot his coat made in the dusk was still moving a little—just vibrating a little bit in the twilight. He touched the bush with his rifle barrel, then crouched almost flat.
Suddenly the red crash of a rifle lit up Clinch's visage for a fraction of a second. And Quintana's bullet smashed Clinch between the eyes.
After a long while Quintana ventured to rise and creep forward.
Night, too, came creeping like an assassin amid the ghostly trees.
So twilight died in the stillness of Drowned Valley and the pall of night lay over all things,—living and dead alike.
THE last sound that Mike Clinch heard on earth was the detonation of his own rifle. Probably it was an agreeable sound to him. He lay there with a pleasant expression on his massive features. His watch had fallen out of his pocket.
Quintana shined him with an electric torch; picked up the watch. Then, holding the torch in one hand, he went through the dead man's pockets very thoroughly.
When Quintana had finished, both trays of the flat morocco case were full of jewels. And Quintana was full of wonder and suspicion.
Unquietly he looked upon the dead—upon the glittering contents of the jewel-box,—but always his gaze reverted to the dead. The faintest shadow of a smile edged Clinch's lips. Quintana's lips grew graver. He said slowly, like one who does his thinking aloud:
"What is it you have done to me, l'ami Clinch?... Are there truly then two sets of precious stones?—twoFlaming Jewels?—two gems of Erosite like there never has been in all thees worl' excep' only two more?... Or is one set false?... Have I here one set of paste facsimiles?... My frien' Clinch, why do you lie there an' smile at me sover' funny ... like you are amuse?... I am wondering what you may have done to me, my frien' Clinch...."
For a while he remained kneeling beside the dead. Then: "Ah, bah," he said, pocketing the morocco case and getting to his feet.
He moved a little way toward the open trail, stopped, came back, stood his rifle against a tree.
For a while he was busy with his sharp Spanish clasp knife, whittling and fitting together two peeled twigs. A cross was the ultimate result. Then he placed Clinch's hands palm to palm upon his chest, laid the cross on his breast, and shined the result with complacency.
Then Quintana took off his hat.
"L'ami Mike," he said, "you were aman!... Adios!"
Quintana put on his hat. The path was free. The world lay open before José Quintana once more;—the world, his hunting ground.
"But," he thought uneasily, "what is it that I bring home this time? How much is paste? My God, how droll that smile of Clinch.... Which is the false—his jewels or mine? Dieu que j'étais bête!——Me who have not suspec' that there aretwotrays within my jewel-box!... I unnerstan'. It is ver' simple. In the top tray the false gems. Ah! Paste on top to deceive a thief!... Alors.... Then what I have recover of Clinch is thereal!... Nom de Dieu!... How should I know? His smile is so ver' funny.... I think thees dead man make mock of me—all inside himse'f——"
So, in darkness, prowling south by west, shining the trail furtively, and loaded rifle ready, Quintana moved withstealthy, unhurried tread out of the wilderness that had trapped him and toward the tangled border of that outer world which led to safe, obscure, uncharted labyrinths—old-world mazes, immemorial hunting grounds—haunted by men who prey.
The night had turned frosty. Quintana, wet to the knees and very tired, moved slowly, not daring to leave the trail because of sink-holes.
However, the trail led to Clinch's Dump, and sooner or later he must leave it.
What he had to have was a fire; he realised that. Somewhere off the trail, in big timber if possible, he must build a fire and master this deadly chill that was slowly paralysing all power of movement.
He knew that a fire in the forest, particularly in big timber, could be seen only a little way. He must take his chances with sink-holes and find some spot in the forest to build that fire.
Who could discover him except by accident?
Who would prowl the midnight wilderness? At thirty yards the fire would not be visible. And, as for the odour—well, he'd be gone before dawn.... Meanwhile, he must have that fire. He could wait no longer.
He cut a pole first. Then he left the trail where a little spring flowed west, and turned to the right, shining the forest floor as he moved and sounding with his pole every wet stretch of moss, every strip of mud, every tiniest glimmer of water.
At last he came to a place of pines, first growth giants towering into night, and, looking up, saw stars, infinitelydistant, ... where perhaps those things called souls drifted like wisps of vapour.
When the fire took, Quintana's thin dark hands had become nearly useless from cold. He could not have crooked finger to trigger.
For a long time he sat close to the blaze, slowly massaging his torpid limbs, but did not dare strip off his foot-gear.
Steam rose from puttee and heavy shoe and from the sodden woollen breeches. Warmth slowly penetrated. There was little smoke; the big dry branches were dead and bleached and he let the fire eat into them without using his axe.
Once or twice he sighed, "Oh, my God," in a weary demi-voice, as though the content of well-being were permeating him.
Later he ate and drank languidly, looking up at the stars, speculating as to the possible presence of Mike Clinch up there.
"Ah, the dirty thief," he murmured; "—nevertheless a man. Quel homme! Mais bête à faire pleurer! Je l'ai bien triché, moi! Ha!"
Quintana smiled palely as he thought of the coat and the gently-swaying bush—of the red glare of Clinch's shot, of the death-echo of his own shot.
Then, uneasy, he drew out the morocco case and gazed at the two trays full of gems.
The jewels blazed in the firelight. He touched them, moved them about, picked up several and examined them, testing the unset edges against his under lip as an expert tests jade.
But he couldn't tell; there was no knowing. He replacedthem, closed the case, pocketed it. When he had a chance he could try boiling water for one sort of trick. He could scratch one or two.... Sard would know. He wondered whether Sard had got away, not concerned except selfishly. However, there were others in Paris whom he could trust—at a price....
Quintana rested both elbows on his knees and framed his dark face between both bony hands.
What a chase Clinch had led him after the Flaming Jewel. And now Clinch lay dead in the forest—faintly smiling. Atwhat?
In a very low, passionless voice, Quintana cursed monotonously as he gazed into the fire. In Spanish, French, Portuguese, Italian, he cursed Clinch. After a little while he remembered Clinch's daughter, and he cursed her, elaborately, thoroughly, wishing her black mischance awake and asleep, living or dead.
Darragh, too, he remembered in his curses, and did not slight him. And the trooper, Stormont—ah, he should have killed all of them when he had the chance.... And those two Baltic Russians, also, the girl duchess and her friend. Why on earth hadn't he made a clean job of it? Over-caution. A wary disinclination to stir up civilization by needless murder. But after all, old maxims, old beliefs, old truths are the best, God knows. The dead don't talk! And that's the wisest wisdom of all.
"If," murmured Quintana fervently, "God gives me further opportunity to acquire a little property to comfort me in my old age, I shall leave no gossiping fool to do me harm with his tongue. No! I kill.
"And though they raise a hue and cry, dead tongues can not wag and I save myse'f much annoyance in the end."
He leaned his back against the trunk of a massive pine.
Presently Quintana slept after his own fashion—that is to say, looking closely at him one could discover a glimmer under his lowered eyelids. And he listened always in that kind of sleep. As though a shadowy part of him were detached from his body, and mounted guard over it.
The inaudible movement of a wood-mouse venturing into the firelit circle awoke Quintana. Again a dropping leaf amid distant birches awoke him. Such things. And so he slept with wet feet to the fire and his rifle across his knees; and dreamed of Eve and of murder, and that the Flaming Jewel was but a mass of glass.
At that moment the girl of whose white throat Quintana was dreaming, and whining faintly in his dreams, stood alone outside Clinch's Dump, rifle in hand, listening, fighting the creeping dread that touched her slender body at times—seemed to touch her very heart with frost.
Clinch's men had gone on to Ghost Lake with their wounded and dead, where there was fitter shelter for both. All had gone on; nobody remained to await Clinch's home-coming except Eve Strayer.
Black Care, that tireless squire of dames, had followed her from the time she had left Clinch, facing the spectral forests of Drowned Valley.
An odd, unusual dread weighted her heart—something in emotions that she never before had experienced in time of danger. In it there was the deathly unease of premonition. But of what it was born she did notunderstand,—perhaps of the strain of dangers passed—of the shock of discovery concerning Smith's identity with Darragh—Darragh!—the hated kinsman of Harrod the abhorred.
Fiercely she wondered how much her lover knew about this miserable masquerade. Was Stormont involved in this deception—Stormont, the object of her first girl's passion—Stormont, for whom she would have died?
Wretched, perplexed, fiercely enraged at Darragh, deadly anxious concerning Clinch, she had gone about cooking supper.
The supper, kept warm on the range, still awaited the man who had no more need of meat and drink.
Of the tragedy of Sard Eve knew nothing. There were no traces save in the disorder in the pantry and the bottles and chair on the veranda.
Who had visited the place excepting those from whom she and Stormont had fled, did not appear. She had no idea why her step-father's mattress and bed-quilt lay in the pantry.
Her heart heavy with ceaseless anxiety, Eve carried mattress and bed-clothes to Clinch's chamber, re-made his bed, wandered through the house setting it in order; then, in the kitchen, seated herself and waited until the strange dread that possessed her drove her out into the starlight to stand and listen and stare at the dark forest where all her dread seemed concentrated.
It was not yet dawn, but the girl could endure the strain no longer.
With electric torch and rifle she started for the forest, almost running at first; then, among the first trees, moving with caution and in silence along the trail over which Clinch should long since have journeyed homeward.
In soft places, when she ventured to flash her torch, foot-prints cast curious shadows, and it was hard to make out tracks so oddly distorted by the light. Prints mingled and partly obliterated other prints. She identified her own tracks leading south, and guessed at the others, pointing north and south, where they had carried in the wounded and had gone back to bring in the dead.
But nowhere could she discover any impression resembling her step-father's,—that great, firm stride and solid imprint which so often she had tracked through moss and swale and which she knew so well.
Once when she got up from her knees after close examination of the muddy trail, she became aware of the slightest taint in the night air—stood with delicate nostrils quivering—advanced, still conscious of the taint, listening, wary, every stealthy instinct alert.
She had not been mistaken: somewhere in the forest there was smoke. Somewhere a fire was burning. It might not be very far away; it might be distant.Whose fire?Her father's? Would a hunter of men build a fire?
The girl stood shivering in the darkness. There was not a sound.
Now, keeping her cautious feet in the trail by sense of touch alone, she moved on. Gradually, as she advanced, the odour of smoke became more distinct. She heard nothing, saw nothing; but there was a near reek of smoke in her nostrils and she stopped short.
After a little while in the intense silence of the forest she ventured to touch the switch of her torch, very cautiously.
In the faint, pale lustre she saw a tiny rivulet flowing westward from a spring, and, beside it, in the mud, imprints of a man's feet.
The tracks were small, narrow, slimmer than imprints made by any man she could think of. Under the glimmer of her torch they seemed quite fresh; contours were still sharp, some ready to crumble, and water stood in the heels.
A little way she traced them, saw where their maker had cut a pole, peeled it; saw, farther on, where this unknown man had probed in moss and mud—peppered some particularly suspicious swale with a series of holes as though a giant woodcock had been "boring" there.
Who was this man wandering all alone at night off the Drowned Valley trail and probing the darkness with a pole?
She knew it was not her father. She knew that no native—none of her father's men—would behave in such a manner. Nor could any of these have left such narrow, almost delicate tracks.
As she stole along, dimly shining the tracks, lifting her head incessantly to listen and peer into the darkness, her quick eye caught something ahead—something very slightly different from the wall of black obscurity—a vague hint of colour—the very vaguest tint scarcely perceptible at all.
But she knew it was firelight touching the trunk of an unseen tree.
Now, soundlessly over damp pine needles she crept. The scent of smoke grew strong in nostril and throat; the pale tint became palely reddish. All about her the blackness seemed palpable—seemed to touch her body with its weight;but, ahead, a ruddy glow stained two huge pines. And presently she saw the fire, burning low, but redly alive. And, after a long, long while, she saw a man.
He had left the fire circle. His pack and belted mackinaw still lay there at the foot of a great tree. But when, finally, she discovered him, he was scarcely visible where he crouched in the shadow of a tree-trunk, with his rifle half lowered at a ready.
Had he heard her? It did not seem possible. Had he been crouching there since he made his fire? Why had he made it then—for its warmth could not reach him there. And why was he so stealthily watching—silent, unstirring, crouched in the shadows?
She strained her eyes; but distance and obscurity made recognition impossible. And yet, somehow, every quivering instinct within her was telling her that the crouched and shadowy watcher beyond the fire was Quintana.
And every concentrated instinct was telling her that he'd kill her if he caught sight of her; her heart clamoured it; her pulses thumped it in her ears.
Had the girl been capable of it she could have killed him where he crouched. She thought of it, but knew it was not in her to do it. And yet Quintana had boasted that he meant to kill her father. That was what terribly concerned her. And there must be a way to stop that danger—some way to stop it short of murder,—a way to render this man harmless to her and hers.
No, she could not kill him this way. Except in extremes she could not bring herself to fire upon any human creature. And yet this man must be rendered harmless—somehow—somehow—ah!——
As the problem presented itself its solution flashed into her mind. Men of the wilderness knew how to take dangerous creatures alive. To take a dangerous and reasoning human was even less difficult, because reason makes more mistakes than does instinct.
Stealthily, without a sound, the girl crept back through the shadows over the damp pine needles, until, peering fearfully over her shoulder, she saw the last ghost-tint of Quintana's fire die out in the terrific dark behind.
Slowly, still, she moved until her sensitive feet felt the trodden path from Drowned Valley.
Now, with torch flaring, she ran, carrying her rifle at a trail. Before her, here and there, little night creatures fled—a humped-up raccoon, dazzled by the glare, a barred owl still struggling with its wood-rat kill.
She ran easily,—an agile, tireless young thing, part of the swiftness and silence of the woods—part of the darkness, the sinuous celerity, the ominous hush of wide, still places—part of its very blood and pulse and hot, sweet breath.
Even when she came out among the birches by Clinch's Dump she was breathing evenly and without distress. She ran to the kitchen door but did not enter. On pegs under the porch a score or more of rusty traps hung. She unhooked the largest, wound the chain around it, tucked it under her left arm and started back.
When at last she arrived at the place of pines again, and saw the far, spectral glimmer of Quintana's fire, the girl was almost breathless. But dawn was not very far awayand there remained little time for the taking alive of a dangerous man.
Where two enormous pines grew close together near a sapling, she knelt down, and, with both hands, scooped out a big hollow in the immemorial layers of pine needles. Here she placed her trap. It took all her strength and skill to set it; to fasten the chain around the base of the sapling pine.
And now, working with only the faintest glimmer of her torch, she covered everything with pine needles.
It was not possible to restore the forest floor; the place remained visible—a darker, rougher patch on the bronzed carpet of needles beaten smooth by decades of rain and snow. No animal would have trodden that suspicious space. But it was with man she had to deal—a dangerous but reasoning man with few and atrophied instincts—and with no experience in traps; and, therefore, in no dread of them.
Before she started she had thrown a cartridge into the breech of her rifle.
Now she pocketed her torch and seated herself between the two big pines and about three feet behind the hidden trap.
Dawn was not far away. She looked upward through high pine-tops where stars shone; and saw no sign of dawn. But the watcher by the fire beyond was astir, now, in the imminence of dawn, and evidently meant to warm himself before leaving.
Eve could hear him piling dry wood on the fire; the light on the tree trunks grew redder; a pungent reek of smokewas drawn through the forest aisles. She sniffed it, listened, and watched, her rifle across her knees.
Eve never had been afraid of anything. She was not afraid of this man. If it came to combat she would have to kill. It never entered her mind to fear Quintana's rifle. Even Clinch was not as swift with a rifle as she.... Only Stormont had been swifter—thank God!——
She thought of Stormont—sat there in the terrific darkness loving him, her heart of a child tremulous with adoration.
Then the memory of Darragh pushed in and hot hatred possessed her. Always, in her heart, she had distrusted the man.
Instinct had warned her. A spy! What evil had he worked already? Where was her father? Evidently Quintana had escaped him at Drowned Valley.... Quintana was yonder by his fire, preparing to flee the wilderness where men hunted him.... But where was Clinch? Had this sneak, Darragh, betrayed him? Was Clinch already in the clutch of the State Troopers? Was he injail?
At the thought the girl felt slightly faint, then a rush of angry blood stung her face in the darkness. Except for game and excise violations the stories they told about Clinch were lies.
He had nothing to fear, nothing to be ashamed of. Harrod had driven him to lawlessness; the Government took away what was left him to make a living. He had to live. What if he did break laws made by millionaire and fanatic! What of it? He had her love and her respect—and her deep, deep pity. And these were enough for any girl to fight for.
Dawn spread a silvery light above the pines, but Quintana's fire still reddened the tree trunks; and she could hear him feeding it at intervals.
Finally she saw him. He came out on the edge of the ruddy ring of light and stood peering around at the woods where already a vague greyness was revealing nearer trees.
When, finally, he turned his back and looked at his fire, Eve rose and stood between the two big pines. Behind one of them she placed her rifle.
It was growing lighter in the woods. She could see Quintana in the fire ring and outside,—saw him go to the spring rivulet, lie flat, drink, then, on his knees, wash face and hands in the icy water.
It became plain to her that he was nearly ready to depart. She watched him preparing. And now she could see him plainly, and knew him to be Quintana and no other.
He had a light basket pack. He put some articles into it, stretched himself and yawned, pulled on his hat, hoisted the pack and fastened it to his back, stood staring at the fire for a long time; then, with a sudden upward look at the zenith where a slight flush stained a cloud, he picked up his rifle.
At that moment Eve called to him in a clear and steady voice.
The effect on Quintana was instant; he was behind a tree before her voice ceased.
"Hallo! Hi! You over there!" she called again. "This is Eve Strayer. I'm looking for Clinch! He hasn't been home all night. Have you seen him?"
After a moment she saw Quintana's head watching her,—notat the shoulder-height of a man but close to the ground and just above the tree roots.
"Hey!" she cried. "What's the matter with you over there? I'm asking you who you are and if you've seen my father?"
After a while she saw Quintana coming toward her, circling, creeping swiftly from tree to tree.
As he flitted through the shadows the trees between which she was standing hid her from him a moment. Instantly she placed her rifle on the ground and kicked the pine needles over it.
As Quintana continued his encircling manœuvres Eve, apparently perplexed, walked out into the clear space, putting the concealed trap between her and Quintana, who now came stealthily toward her from the rear.
It was evident that he had reconnoitred sufficiently to satisfy himself that the girl was alone and that no trick, no ambuscade, threatened him.
And now, from behind a pine, and startlingly near her, came Quintana, moving with confident grace yet holding his rifle ready for any emergency.
Eve's horrified stare was natural; she had not realised that any man could wear so evil a smile.
Quintana stopped short a dozen paces away. The dramatic in him demanded of the moment its full value. He swept off his hat with a flourish, bowed deeply where he stood.
"Ah!" he cried gaily, "the happy encounter, Señorita. God is too good to us. And it was but a moment since my thoughts were of you! I swear it!——"
It was not fear; it was a sort of slow horror of this manthat began to creep over the girl. She stared at his brilliant eyes, at his thick mouth, too red—shuddered slightly. But the toe of her right foot touched the stock of her rifle under the pine needles.
She held herself under control.
"So it's you," she said unsteadily. "I thought our people had caught you."
Quintana laughed: "Charming child," he said, "it isIwho have caught your people. And now, my God!—I catchyou!... It is ver' funny. Is it not?"
She looked straight into Quintana's black eyes, but the look he returned sent the shamed blood surging into her face.
"By God," he said between his white, even teeth,—"by God!"
Staring at her he slowly disengaged his pack, let it fall behind him on the pine needles; rested his rifle on it; slipped out of his mackinaw and laid that across his rifle—always keeping his brilliant eyes on her.
His lips tightened, the muscles in his dark face grew tense; his eyes became a blazing insult.
For an instant he stood there, unencumbered, a wiry, graceful shape in his woollen breeches, leggings, and grey shirt open at the throat. Then he took a step toward her. And the girl watched him, fascinated.
One pace, two, a third, a fourth—the girl's involuntary cry echoed the stumbling crash of the man thrashing, clawing, scrambling in the clenched jaws of the bear-trap amid a whirl of flying pine needles.
He screamed once, tried to rise, turned blindly to seize the jaws that clutched him; and suddenly crouched, loose-jointed,cringing like a trapped wolf—the true fatalist among our lesser brothers.
Eve picked up her rifle. She was trembling violently. Then, mastering her emotion, she walked over to the pack, placed Quintana's rifle and mackinaw in it, coolly hoisted it to her shoulders and buckled it there.
Over her shoulder she kept an eye on Quintana who crouched where he had fallen, unstirring, his deadly eyes watching her.
She placed the muzzle of her rifle against his stomach, rested it so, holding it with one hand, and her finger at the trigger.
At her brief order he turned out both breeches pockets. She herself stooped and drew the Spanish clasp-knife from its sheath at his belt, took a pistol from the holster, another out of his hip pocket. Reaching up and behind her, she dropped these into the pack.
"Maybe," she said slowly, "your ankle is broken. I'll send somebody from Ghost Lake to find you. But whether you've a broken bone or not you'll not go very far, Quintana.... After I'm gone you'll be able to free yourself. But you can't get away. You'll be followed and caught.... So if you can walk at all you'd better go in to Ghost Lake and give yourself up.... It's that or starvation.... You've got a watch.... Don't stir or touch that trap for half an hour.... And that's all."
As she moved away toward the Drowned Valley trail she looked back at him. His face was bloodless but his black eyes blazed.
"If ever you come into this forest again," she said, "my father will surely kill you."
To her horror Quintana slowly grinned at her. Then, still grinning, he placed the forefinger of his left hand between his teeth and bit it.
Whatever he meant by the gesture it seemed unclean, horrible; and the girl hurried on, seized with an overwhelming loathing through which a sort of terror pulsated like evil premonition in a heavy and tortured heart.
Straight into the fire of dawn she sped. A pale primrose light glimmered through the woods; trees, bushes, undergrowth turned a dusky purple. Already the few small clouds overhead were edged with fiery rose.
Then, of a sudden, a shaft of flame played over the forest. The sun had risen.
Hastening, she searched the soft path for any imprint of her father's foot. And even in the vain search she hoped to find him at home—hurried on burdened with two rifles and a pack, still all nervous and aquiver from her encounter with Quintana.
Surely, surely, she thought, if he had missed Quintana in Drowned Valley he would not linger in that ghastly place; he'd come home, call in his men, take counsel perhaps——
Mist over Star Pond was dissolving to a golden powder in the blinding glory of the sun. The eastern window-panes in Clinch's Dump glittered as though the rooms inside were all on fire.
Down through withered weeds and scrub she hurried, ran across the grass to the kitchen door which swung ajar under its porch.
"Dad!" she called, "Dad!"
Only her own frightened voice echoed in the empty house.She climbed the stairs to his room. The bed lay undisturbed as she had made it. He was not in any of the rooms; there were no signs of him.
Slowly she descended to the kitchen. He was not there. The food she had prepared for him had become cold on a chilled range.
For a long while she stood staring through the window at the sunlight outside. Probably, since Quintana had eluded him, he'd come home for something to eat.... Surely, now that Quintana had escaped, Clinch would come back for some breakfast.
Eve slipped the pack from her back and laid it on the kitchen table. There was kindling in the wood-box. She shook down the cinders, laid a fire, soaked it with kerosene, lighted it, filled the kettle with fresh water.
In the pantry she cut some ham, and found eggs, condensed milk, butter, bread, and an apple pie. After she had ground the coffee she placed all these on a tray and carried them into the kitchen.
Now there was nothing more to do until her father came, and she sat down by the kitchen table to wait.
Outside the sunlight was becoming warm and vivid. There had been no frost after all—or, at most, merely a white trace in the shadow—on a fallen plank here and there—but not enough to freeze the ground. And, in the sunshine, it all quickly turned to dew, and glittered and sparkled in a million hues and tints like gems—like that handful of jewels she had poured into her father's joined palms—yesterday—there at the ghostly edge of Drowned Valley.
At the memory, and quite mechanically, she turned in her chair and drew Quintana's basket pack toward her.
First she lifted out his rifle, examined it, set it against the window sill. Then, one by one, she drew out two pistols, loaded; the murderous Spanish clasp-knife; an axe; a fry-pan and a tin pail, and the rolled-up mackinaw.
Under these the pack seemed to contain nothing except food and ammunition; staples in sacks and a few cans—lard, salt, tea—such things.
The cartridge boxes she piled up on the table; the food she tossed into a tin swill bucket.
About the effects of this man it seemed to her as though something unclean lingered. She could scarcely bear to handle them,—threw them from her with disgust.
The garment, also—the heavy brown and green mackinaw—she disliked to touch. To throw it out doors was her intention; but, as she lifted the coat, it unrolled and some things fell from the pockets to the kitchen table,—money, keys, a watch, a flat leather case——
She looked stupidly at the case. It had a coat of arms emblazoned on it.
Still, stupidly and as though dazed, she laid one hand on it, drew it to her, opened it.
The Flaming Jewel blazed in her face amid a heap of glittering gems.
Still she seemed slow to comprehend—as though understanding were paralysed.
It was when her eyes fell upon the watch that her heart seemed to stop. Suddenly her stunned senses were lighted as by an infernal flare.... Under the awful blow she swayed upright to her feet, sick with fright, her eyes fixed on her father's watch.
It was still ticking.
She did not know whether she cried out in anguish or was dumb under it. The house seemed to reel around her; under foot too.
When she came to her senses she found herself outside the house, running with her rifle, already entering the woods. But, inside the barrier of trees, something blocked her way, stopped her,—a man—herman!
"Eve! In God's name!——" he said as she struggled in his arms; but she fought him and strove to tear her body from his embrace:
"They've killed Dad!" she panted,—"Quintana killed him. I didn't know—oh, I didn't know!—and I let Quintana go! Oh, Jack, Jack, he's at the Place of Pines! I'm going there to shoot him! Let me go!—he's killed Dad, I tell you! He had Dad's watch—and the case of jewels—they were in his pack on the kitchen table——"
"Eve!"
"Let me go!——"
"Eve!" He held her rigid a moment in his powerful grip, compelled her dazed, half-crazed eyes to meet his own:
"You must come to your senses," he said. "Listen to what I say: they arebringing in your father."
Her dilated blue eyes never moved from his.
"We found him in Drowned Valley at sunrise," said Stormont quietly. "The men are only a few rods behind me. They are carrying him out."
Her lips made a word without sound.
"Yes," said Stormont in a low voice.
There was a sound in the woods behind them. Stormont turned. Far away down the trail the men came into sight.
Then the State Trooper turned the girl very gently and placed one arm around her shoulders.
Very slowly they descended the hill together. His equipment was shining in the morning sun: and the sun fell on Eve's drooping head, turning her chestnut hair to fiery gold.
An hour later Trooper Stormont was at the Place of Pines.
There was nothing there except an empty trap and the ashes of the dying fire beyond.
Toward noon the wind changed, and about one o'clock it began to snow.
Eve, exhausted, lay on the sofa in her bedroom. Her step-father lay on a table in the dance hall below, covered by a sheet from his own bed. And beside him sat Trooper Stormont, waiting.
It was snowing heavily when Mr. Lyken, the little undertaker from Ghost Lake, arrived with several assistants, a casket, and what he called "swell trimmings."
Long ago Mike Clinch had selected his own mortuary site and had driven a section of iron pipe into the ground on a ferny knoll overlooking Star Pond. In explanation he grimly remarked to Eve that after death he preferred to be planted where he could see that Old Harrod's ghost didn't trespass.
Here two of Mr. Lyken's able assistants dug a grave while the digging was still good; for if Mike Clinch was to lie underground that season there might be need of haste—no weather prophet ever having successfully forecast Adirondack weather.
Eve, exhausted by shock and a sleepless night, was spared the more harrowing details of the coroner's visit and thesubsequent jaunty activities of Mr. Lyken and his efficient assistants.
She had managed to dress herself in a black wool gown, intending to watch by Mike, but Stormont's blunt authority prevailed and she lay down for an hour's rest.
The hour lengthened into many hours; the girl slept heavily on her sofa under blankets laid over her by Stormont.
All that dark, snowy day she slept, mercifully unconscious of the proceedings below.
In its own mysterious way the news penetrated the wilderness; and out of the desolation of forest and swamp and mountain drifted the people who somehow existed there—a few shy, half wild young girls, a dozen silent, lank men, two or three of Clinch's own people, who stood silently about in the falling snow and lent a hand whenever requested.
One long shanked youth cut hemlock to line the grave; others erected a little fence of silver birch around it, making of the enclosure a "plot."
A gaunt old woman from God knows where aided Mr. Lyken at intervals: a pretty, sulky-eyed girl with her slovenly, red-headed sister cooked for anybody who desired nourishment.
When Mike was ready to hold the inevitable reception everybody filed into the dance hall. Mr. Lyken was master of ceremonies; Trooper Stormont stood very tall and straight by the head of the casket.
Clinch wore a vague, indefinable smile and his best clothes,—that same smile which had so troubled José Quintana.
Light was fading fast in the room when the last visitortook silent leave of Clinch and rejoined the groups in the kitchen, where were the funeral baked meats.
Eve still slept. Descending again from his reconnaissance, Trooper Stormont encountered Trooper Lannis below.
"Has anybody picked up Quintana's tracks?" inquired the former.
"Not so far. An Inspector and two State Game Protectors are out beyond Owl Marsh. The Troopers from Five Lakes are on the job, and we have enforcement men along Drowned Valley from The Scaur to Harrod Place."
"Does Darragh know?"
"Yes. He's in there with Mike. He brought a lot of flowers from Harrod Place."
The two troopers went into the dance hall where Darragh was arranging the flowers from his greenhouses.
Stormont said quietly: "All right, Jim, but Eve must not know that they came from Harrod's."
Darragh nodded: "How is she, Jack?"
"All in."
"Do you know the story?"
"Yes. Mike went into Drowned Valley early last evening after Quintana. He didn't come back. Before dawn this morning Eve located Quintana, set a bear-trap for him, and caught him with the goods——"
"What goods?" demanded Darragh sharply.
"Well, she got his pack and found Mike's watch and jewelry in it——"
"What jewelry?"
"The jewels Quintana was after. But that was after she'd arrived at the Dump, here, leaving Quintana to get free of the trap and beat it.
"That's how I met her—half crazed, going to find Quintana again. We'd found Mike in Drowned Valley and were bringing him out when I ran into Eve.... I brought her back here and called Ghost Lake.... They haven't picked up Quintana's tracks so far."
After a silence: "Too bad this snow came so late," remarked Trooper Lannis."Butwe ought to get Quintana anyway."
Darragh went over and looked silently at Mike Clinch.
"I liked you," he said under his breath. "It wasn't your fault. And it wasn't mine, Mike.... I'll try to square things. Don't worry."
He came back slowly to where Stormont was standing near the door:
"Jack," he said, "you can't marry Eve on a Trooper's pay. Why not quit and take over the Harrod estate?... You and I can go into business together later if you like."
After a pause: "That's rather wonderful of you, Jim," said Stormont, "but you don't know what sort of business man I'd make——"
"I know what sort of officer you made.... I'm taking no chance.... And I'll make my peace with Eve—or somebody will do it for me.... Is it settled then?"
"Thanks," said Trooper Stormont, reddening. They clasped hands. Then Stormont went about and lighted the candles in the room. Clinch's face, again revealed, was still faintly amused at something or other. The dead have much to be amused at.
As Darragh was about to go, Stormont said: "We're burying Clinch at eleven to-morrow morning. The Ghost Lake Pilot officiates."
"I'll come if it won't upset Eve," said Darragh.
"She won't notice anybody, I fancy," remarked Stormont.
He stood by the veranda and watched Darragh take the Lake Trail through the snow. Finally the glimmer of his swinging lantern was lost in the woods and Stormont mounted the stairs once more, stood silently by Eve's open door, realised she was still heavily asleep, and seated himself on a chair outside her door to watch and wait.
All night long it snowed hard over the Star Pond country, and the late grey light of morning revealed a blinding storm pelting a white robed world.
Toward ten o'clock, Stormont, on guard, noticed that Eve was growing restless.
Downstairs the flotsam of the forest had gathered again: Mr. Lyken was there in black gloves; the Reverend Laomi Smatter had arrived in a sleigh from Ghost Lake. Both were breakfasting heavily.
The pretty, sulky-faced girl fetched a tray and placed Eve's breakfast on it; and Trooper Stormont carried it to her room.
She was awake when he entered. He set the tray on the table. She put both arms around his neck.
"Jack," she murmured, her eyes tremulous with tears.
"Everything has been done," he said. "Will you be ready by eleven? I'll come for you."
She clung to him in silence for a while.
At eleven he knocked on her door. She opened it. She wore her black wool gown and a black fur turban. Someof her pallor remained,—traces of tears and bluish smears under both eyes. But her voice was steady.
"Could I see Dad a moment alone?"
"Of course."
She took his arm: they descended the stairs. There seemed to be many people about but she did not lift her eyes until her lover led her into the dance hall where Clinch lay smiling his mysterious smile.
Then Stormont left her alone there and closed the door.
In a terrific snow-storm they buried Mike Clinch on the spot he had selected, in order that he might keep a watchful eye upon the trespassing ghost of old man Harrod.
It blew and stormed and stormed, and the thin, nasal voice of "Rev. Smatter" was utterly lost in the wind. The slanting lances of snow drove down on the casket, building a white mound over the flowers, blotting the hemlock boughs from sight.
There was no time to be lost now; the ground was freezing under a veering and bitter wind out of the west. Mr. Lyken's talented assistants had some difficulty in shaping the mound which snow began to make into a white and flawless monument.
The last slap of the spade rang with a metallic jar across the lake, where snow already blotted the newly forming film of ice; the human denizens of the wilderness filtered back into it one by one; "Rev. Smatter" got into his sleigh, plainly concerned about the road; Mr. Lyken betrayed unprofessional haste in loading his wagon with his talented assistants and starting for Ghost Lake.
A Game Protector or two put on snow-shoes when theydeparted. Trooper Lannis led out his horse and Stormont's, and got into the saddle.
"I'd better get these beasts into Ghost Lake while I can," he said. "You'll follow on snow-shoes, won't you, Jack?"
"I don't know. I may need a sleigh for Eve. She can't remain here all alone. I'll telephone the Inn."
Darragh, in blanket outfit, a pair of snow-shoes on his back, a rifle in his mittened hand, came trudging up from the lake. He and Stormont watched Lannis riding away with the two horses.
"He'll make it all right, but it's time he started," said the latter.
Darragh nodded: "Some storm. Where is Eve?"
"In her room."
"What is she going to do, Jack?"
"Marry me as soon as possible. She wants to stay here for a few days but I can't leave her here alone. I think I'll telephone to Ghost Lake for a sleigh."
"Let me talk to her," said Darragh in a low voice.
"Do you think you'd better—at such a time?"
"I think it's a good time. It will divert her mind, anyway. I want her to come to Harrod Place."
"She won't," said Stormont grimly.
"She might. Let me talk to her."
"Do you realise how she feels toward you, Jim?"
"I do, indeed. And I don't blame her. But let me tell you; Eve Strayer is the most honest and fair-minded girl I ever knew.... Except one.... I'll take a chance that she'll listen to me.... Sooner or later she will be obliged to hear what I have to tell her.... But it will be easierfor her—for everybody—if I speak to her now. Let me try, Jack."
Stormont hesitated, looked at him, nodded. Darragh stood his rifle against the bench on the kitchen porch. They entered the house slowly. And met Eve descending the stairs.
The girl looked at Darragh, astonished, then her pale face flushed with anger.
"What are you doing in this house?" she demanded unsteadily. "Have you no decency, no shame?"
"Yes," he said, "I am ashamed of what my kinsman has done to you and yours. That is partly why I am here."
"You came here as a spy," she said with hot contempt. "You lied about your name; you lied about your purpose. You came here to betray Dad! If he'd known it he would have killed you!"
"Yes, he would have. But—do you know why I came here, Eve?"
"I've told you!"
"And you are wrong. I didn't come here to betray Mike Clinch: I came to save him."
"Do you suppose I believe a man who has lied to Dad?" she cried.
"I don't ask you to, Eve. I shall let somebody else prove what I say. I don't blame you for your attitude. God knows I don't blame Mike Clinch. He stood up like a man to Henry Harrod.... All I ask is to undo some of the rotten things that my uncle did to you and yours. And that is partly why I came here."
The girl said passionately: "Neither Dad nor I want anything from Harrod Place or from you! Do you supposeyou can come here after Dad is dead and pretend you want to make amends for what your uncle did to us?"
"Eve," said Darragh gravely, "I've made some amends already. You don't know it, but I have.... You may not believe it, but I liked your father. He was a real man. Had anybody done to me what Henry Harrod did to your father I'd have behaved as your father behaved; I'd never have budged from this spot; I'd have hunted where I chose; I'd have borne an implacable hatred against Henry Harrod and Harrod Place, and every soul in it!"
The girl, silenced, looked at him without belief.
He said: "I am not surprised that you distrust what I say. But the man you are going to marry was a junior officer in my command. I have no closer friend than Jack Stormont. Ask him whether I am to be believed."
Astounded, the girl turned a flushed, incredulous face to Stormont.
He said: "You may trust Darragh as you trust me. I don't know what he has to say to you, dear. But whatever he says will be the truth."
Darragh said, gravely: "Through a misunderstanding your father came into possession of stolen property, Eve. He did not know it had been stolen. I did. But Mike Clinch would not have believed me if I had told him that the case of jewels in his possession had been stolen from a woman.... Quintana stole them. By accident they came into your father's possession. I learned of this. I had promised this woman to recover her jewels.
"I came here for that purpose, Eve. And for two reasons: first, because I learned that Quintana also was coming here to rob your father of these gems; second, because, when Iknew your father, and knewyou, I concluded that it would be an outrage to call on the police. It would mean prison for Clinch, misery and ruin for you, Eve. So—I tried to steal the jewels ... to save you both."
He looked at Stormont, who seemed astonished.
"To whom do these jewels belong, Jim?" demanded the trooper.
"To the young Grand Duchess of Esthonia.... Do you remember that I befriended her over there?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember that the Reds were accused of burning her château and looting it?"
"Yes, I remember."
"Well, it was Quintana and his gang of international criminals who did that," said Darragh drily.
And, to Eve: "By accident this case of jewels, emblazoned with the coat of arms of the Grand Duchess of Esthonia, came into your father's possession. That is the story, Eve."
There was a silence. The girl looked at Stormont, flushed painfully, looked at Darragh.
Then, without a word, she turned, ascended the stairs, and reappeared immediately carrying the leather case.
"Thank you, Mr. Darragh," she said simply; and laid the case in his hand.
"But," said Darragh, "I want you to do a little more, Eve. The owner of these gems is my guest at Harrod Place. I want you to give them to her yourself."
"I—I can't go to Harrod Place," stammered the girl.
"Please don't visit the sins of Henry Harrod on me, Eve."
"I—don't. But—but that place——"
After a silence: "If Eve feels that way," began Stormont awkwardly, "I couldn't become associated with you in business, Jim——"
"I'd rather sell Harrod Place than lose you!" retorted Darragh almost sharply. "I want to go into business with you, Jack—if Eve will permit me——"
She stood looking at Stormont, the heightened colour playing in her cheeks as she began to comprehend the comradeship between these two men.
Slowly she turned to Darragh, offered her hand:
"I'll go to Harrod Place," she said in a low voice.
Darragh's quick smile brightened the sombre gravity of his face.
"Eve," he said, "when I came over here this morning from Harrod Place I was afraid you would refuse to listen to me; I was afraid you would not even see me. And so I brought with me—somebody—to whom I felt certain you would listen.... I brought with me a young girl—a poor refugee from Russia, once wealthy, to-day almost penniless.... Her name is Theodorica.... Once she was Grand Duchess of Esthonia.... But this morning a clergyman from Five Lakes changed her name.... To such friends as you and Jack she is Ricca Darragh now ... and she's having a wonderful time on her new snow-shoes——"
He took Eve by one hand and Stormont by the other, and drew them to the kitchen door and kicked it open.
Through the swirling snow, over on the lake-slope at the timber edge, a graceful, boyish figure in scarlet and white wool moved swiftly over the drifts with all the naïve delight of a child with a brand new toy.
As Darragh strode out into the open the distant figure flung up one arm in salutation and came racing over the drifts, her brilliant scarf flying.
All aglow and a trifle breathless, she met Darragh just beyond the veranda, rested one mittened hand on his shoulder while he knelt and unbuckled her snow-shoes, stepped lightly from them and came forward to Eve with out-stretched hand and a sudden winning gravity in her lovely face.
"We shall be friends, surely," she said in her quick, winning voice;—"because my husband has told me—and I am so grieved for you—and I need a girl friend——"
Holding both Eve's hands, her mittens dangling from her wrist, she looked into her eyes very steadily.
Slowly Eve's eyes filled; more slowly still Ricca kissed her on both cheeks, framed her face in both hands, kissed her lightly on the lips.
Then, still holding Eve's hands, she turned and looked at Stormont.
"I remember you now," she said. "You were with my husband in Riga."
She freed her right hand and held it out to Stormont. He had the grace to kiss it and did it very well for a Yankee.
Together they entered the kitchen door and turned into the dining room on the left, where were chairs around the plain pine table.
Darragh said: "The new mistress of Harrod Place has selected your quarters, Eve. They adjoin the quarters of her friend, the Countess Orloff-Strelwitz."
"Valentine begged me," said Ricca, smiling. "She is going to be lonely without me. All hours of day and nightwe were trotting into one another's rooms——"She looked gravely at Eve: "You will like Valentine; and she will like you very much.... As for me—I already love you."
She put one arm around Eve's shoulders: "How could you even think of remaining here all alone? Why, I should never close my eyes for thinking of you, dear."
Eve's head drooped; she said in a stifled voice: "I'll go with you.... I want to.... I'm very—tired."
"We had better go now," said Darragh. "Your things can be brought over later. If you'll dress for snow-shoeing, Jack can pack what clothes you need.... Are there snow-shoes for him, too?"
Eve turned tragically to her lover: "In Dad's closet——"she said, choking; then turned and went up the stairs, still clinging to Ricca's hand and drawing her with her.
Stormont followed, entered Clinch's quarters, and presently came downstairs again, carrying Clinch's snow-shoes and a basket pack.
He seated himself near Darragh. After a silence: "Your wife is beautiful, Jim.... Her character seems to be even more beautiful.... She's like God's own messenger to Eve.... And—you're rather wonderful yourself——"
"Nonsense," said Darragh, "I've given my wife her first American friend and I've done a shrewd stroke of business in nabbing the best business associate I ever heard of——"
"You're crazy but kind.... I hope I'll be some good.... One thing; I'll never get over what you've done for Eve in this crisis——"
"There'll be no crisis, Jack. Marry, and hook up with me in business. That solves everything.... Lord!—what a life Eve has had! But you'll make it all up to her ... allthis loneliness and shame and misery of Clinch's Dump——"
Stormont touched his arm in caution: Eve and Ricca came down the stairs—the former now in the grey wool snow-shoe dress, and carrying her snow-shoes, black gown, and toilet articles.
Stormont began to stow away her effects in the basket pack; Darragh went over to her and took her hand.
"I'm so glad we are to be friends," he said. "It hurt a lot to know you held me in contempt. But I had to go about it that way."
Eve nodded. Then, suddenly recollecting: "Oh," she exclaimed, reddening, "I forgot the jewel case! It's under my pillow——"
She turned and sped upstairs and reappeared almost instantly, carrying the jewel-case.
Breathless, flushed, thankful and happy in the excitement of restitution, she placed the leather case in Ricca's hands.
"My jewels!" cried the girl, astounded. Then, with a little cry of delight, she placed the case upon the table, stripped open the emblazoned cover, and emptied the two trays. All over the table rolled the jewels, flashing, scintillating, ablaze with blinding light.
And at the same instant the outer door crashed open and Quintana covered them with Darragh's rifle.
"Now, by Christ!" he shouted, "who stirs a finger shall go to God in one jump! You, my gendarme frien'—you, my frien' Smith—turn your damn backs—han's up high!—tha's the way!—now, ladies!—back away there—get back or I kill!—sure, by Jesus, I kill you like I would some white little mice!——"
With incredible quickness he stepped forward and sweptthe jewels into one hand—filled the pocket of his trousers, caught up every stray stone and pocketed them.
"You gendarme," he cried in a menacing voice, "you think you shall follow in my track. Yes? I blow your damn head off if you stir before the hour.... After that—well, follow and be damn!"
Even as he spoke he stepped outside and slammed the door; and Darragh and Stormont leaped for it. Then the loud detonation of Quintana's rifle was echoed by the splintering rip of bullets tearing through the closed door; and both men halted in the face of the leaden hail.
Eve ran to the pantry window and saw Quintana in somebody's stolen lumber-sledge, lash a big pair of horses to a gallop and go floundering past into the Ghost Lake road.
As he sped by in a whirl of snow he fired five times at the house, then, rising and swinging his whip, he flogged the frantic horses into the woods.
In the dining room, Stormont, red with rage and shame, and having found his rifle in the corridor outside Eve's bedroom, was trying to open the shutters for a shot; and Darragh, empty-handed, searched the house frantically for a weapon.
Eve, terribly excited, came from the pantry:
"He's gone!" she cried furiously. "He's in somebody's lumber-sledge with a pair of horses and he's driving west like the devil!"