my friend," the Ancient Mariner murmured
in the first lull between the gusts.

CHAPTER XXII

Not altogether unwillingly, in the darkness of night, despite that he
disliked the man, did Michael go with Harry Del Mar. Like a burglar the
man came, with infinite caution of silence, to the outhouse in Doctor
Emory's back yard where Michael was a prisoner. Del Mar knew the theatre
too well to venture any hackneyed melodramatic effect such as an electric
torch. He felt his way in the darkness to the door of the outhouse,
unlatched it, and entered softly, feeling with his hands for the wire-
haired coat.

And Michael, a man-dog and a lion-dog in all the stuff of him, bristled
at the instant of intrusion, but made no outcry. Instead, he smelled out
the intruder and recognised him. Disliking the man, nevertheless he
permitted the tying of the rope around his neck and silently followed him
out to the sidewalk, down to the corner, and into the waiting taxi.

His reasoning--unless reason be denied him--was simple. This man he had
met, more than once, in the company of Steward. Amity had existed
between him and Steward, for they had sat at table, and drunk together.
Steward was lost. Michael knew not where to find him, and was himself a
prisoner in the back yard of a strange place. What had once happened,
could again happen. It had happened that Steward, Del Mar, and Michael
had sat at table together on divers occasions. It was probable that such
a combination would happen again, was going to happen now, and, once
more, in the bright-lighted cabaret, he would sit on a chair, Del Mar on
one side, and on the other side beloved Steward with a glass of beer
before him--all of which might be called "leaping to a conclusion"; for
conclusion there was, and upon the conclusion Michael acted.

Now Michael could not reason to this conclusion nor think to this
conclusion, in words. "Amity," as an instance, was no word in his
consciousness. Whether or not he thought to the conclusion in
swift-related images and pictures and swift-welded composites of images
and pictures, is a problem that still waits human solution. The point
is: _he did think_. If this be denied him, then must he have acted
wholly by instinct--which would seem more marvellous on the face of it
than if, in dim ways, he had performed a vague thought-process.

However, into the taxi and away through the maze of San Francisco's
streets, Michael lay aler