a cautious reconnaisance of
the road from the underbrush before venturing upon it--the world was
filled with ghostly light now. It was well that he did so, for he saw
a burly individual loafing in the highway, with his eye on the end of
the wood track. He wore civilian clothes, but "policeman" was written
all over him.

Evan had to get across that road somehow, but it was so straight the
watcher could see half a mile in either direction. And on the other
side there was no cover, only cultivated fields. There was one spot
some hundreds of yards north where the road dipped into a hollow and
was lost to view for a short space. Evan, keeping well within the
woods, made for that.

There was a stream with a bridge over it. By hugging the edge of the
stream and ducking under the bridge he made the other side of the road.
A field of growing corn received him.

That was his last serious hazard. In the sweet coolness of the dawn he
made his way over field after field, keeping the sunrise at his back.
He crossed the roads circumspectly and gave the villages a wide berth.
Finally he climbed a wooded hill, and from the other side looked down
into the city of Yonkers. Here he ventured to show himself openly,
took a car for town, and an hour and a half later was climbing the
stairs to his own room. His heart was heavy with anxiety.

When he entered he saw Charley sitting at his table with his head on
his arms, asleep. Evan's heart leaped. He shook the sleeper.

"Is she all right?" he cried.

Charley lifted a sullen and resentful face. "She got home all right,"
he muttered, and immediately started for the door, still swaying with
sleep.

"Wait a minute," said Evan. "Here's your gun."

Charley held out his hand for it without looking at the other.

Evan no longer blamed Charley for what had seemed like treachery.
Indeed, his heart was warm now towards his old friend. "Don't you want
to stop and talk things over?" he said.

"I have nothing to say to you," Charley said sorely, and went on out.

Evan, with a sigh, turned bedwards.

CHAPTER XXIII

SIMEON DEAVES TURNS PHILANTHROPIST

During his long vigil beside the spruce tree a scheme for dealing out
poetic justice all around had occurred to Evan. Of course one can
never tell in advance how people are going to take things, but he had
chuckled and resolved to try it anyhow. So full was he of his scheme,
even in sleep, that he awoke in an hour, and bat