creatures."

"Those?" said Average Jones. "Why, they were my bloodhounds, my little
detectives. There's nothing very awful about those, Sylvia. They've done
their work as nature gave 'em to do it. I knew that as soon as they got
out, they would find the trail."

"And what are they?"

"Carrion beetles," said Average Jones. "Where the vultures of the insect
kingdom are gathered together, there the quarry lies."

Sylvia Graham drew a long breath. "I'm all right now," she pronounced.
"There's nothing left, I suppose, but to leave this house. And to thank
you. How am I ever to thank you?" She lifted her eyes to his.

"Never mind the thanks," said Average Jones unevenly. "It was nothing."

"It was everything! It was wonderful!" cried the girl, and held out her
slender hands to him.

As they clasped warmly upon his, Average Jones' reason lost its balance.
He forgot that he was in that house on an equivocal footing; he forgot
that he had exposed and disgraced Sylvia Graham's near relative; he
forgot that this was but his third meeting with Sylvia Graham herself;
he forgot everything except that the sum total of all that was sweetest
and finest and most desirable in womanhood stood warm and vivid before
him; and, bending over the little, clinging hands, he pressed his lips
to them. Only for a moment. The hands slipped from his. There was a
quick, frightened gasp, and the girl's face, all aflush with a new,
sweet fearfulness and wondering confusion, vanished behind a ponderous
swinging door.

The young man's knees shook a little as he walked forward and put his
lips close to the lintel.

"Sylvia."

There was a faint rustle from within.

"I'm sorry. I mean, I'm glad. Gladder than of anything I've ever done in
my life."

Silence from within.

"If I've frightened you, forgive me. I couldn't help it. It was stronger
than I. This isn't the place where I can tell you. Sylvia, I'm going
now."

No answer.

"The work is done," he continued. "You won't need me any more." Did he
hear, from within, a faint indrawn breath? "Not for any help that I can
give. But I--I shall need you always, and long for you. Listen, there
mustn't be any misunderstanding about this, dear. If you send for me, it
must be because you want me; knowing that, when I come, I shall come for
you. Good-by, dear."

"Good-by." It was the merest whisper from behind the door. But it echoed
in the tones of a thousand golden hopes and dismal fears in the