s assurance of Lorna's wantonness.

Then he stole forward, closer and closer. He heard a low voice of
dalliance, a titter, high-pitched and sweet--sweet and wild. That was
not Lorna's laugh. The car was not Swann's.

Lane swerved to the left, and in the gloom of trees, passed by
noiselessly. Soon he encountered another car--an open car with shields
up--as silent as if empty. But the very silence of it was potent of
life. It cried out to the night and to Lane. But it was not the car he
had followed.

Again he slipped by, stealthily, yet scornful of his caution. Who
cared? He might have shouted his mission to the heavens. Lane passed
on. All he caught from the second car was a faint fragrance of smoke,
wafted on the gentle summer breeze.

Another black object loomed up--a larger car--the sedan Lane
recognized. He did not bolt or hurry. His footsteps made no sound.
Crouching a little he slipped round the car to one side. At the
instant he reached for the handle of the door, a pang shook him. Alas,
that he should be compelled to spy on Lorna! His little sister! He
saw her as a curly-headed child, adoring him. Perhaps it might not be
Lorna after all. But it was for her sake that he was doing this. The
softer moment passed and the soldier intervened.

With one swift turn and jerk he opened the door--then flashed his
light. A scream rent the air. In the glaring circle of light Lane saw
red hair--green eyes transfixed in fear--white shoulders--white
arms--white ringed hands suddenly flung upward. Helen! The blood left
his heart in a rush. Swann blinked in the light, bewildered and
startled.

"Swann, you'll have to excuse me," said Lane, coolly. "I thought you
had my sister with you. I've spotted her twice with you in this
car.... It may not interest you or your--your guest, but I'll add that
you're damned lucky not to have Lorna here to-night."

Then he snapped off his flash-light, and slamming the car door, he
wheeled away.

CHAPTER XIII

Lane left his room and went into the shady woods, where he thought the
July heat would be less unendurable, where the fever in his blood
might abate. But though it was cool and pleasant there he experienced
no relief. Wherever he went he carried the burden of his pangs. And
his grim giant of unrest trod in his shadow.

He could not stay long in the woods. He betook himself to the hills
and meadows. Action was beneficial for him, though he soon exhausted
himself. He would