uld not be likely
to. A bulky letter remained in his hand. The others lay scattered
broadcast upon the desk.

For some moments he held the letter unopened. The lean fingers felt the
bulk of the envelope, while feverish eyes surveyed, and read over and
over the address in the familiar small, cramped handwriting. The impulse
of the moment was to tear open the letter forthwith, to snatch at the
tidings he felt it to contain. But something deterred. Something left
him doubting, hesitating. It was what Bat had called his "yellow
streak." Suppose--suppose--But with all his might he thrust his fears
aside. He tore off the outer cover and unfolded the closely written
pages.

Long, silent moments passed, broken only by the shuffling of the sheets
of the letter as he turned them. Not once did he look up from his
reading. Right through to the end, the dreadful, bitter end, he read the
hideous news his loyal friend had to impart. Twice, during the reading,
the sharp intake of breath, that almost whistled in the silence of the
room, told of an emotion he had no power to repress, and at the finish
of it all the mechanically re-folded page's fell from shaking, nerveless
fingers upon the littered desk.

His eyes remained lowered gazing at the fallen letter. His hands
remained poised where the letter had fallen from them. His face had lost
its healthful hue. It was grey, and drawn, and the lips that parted as
he muttered had completely blanched.

"Dead!" he whispered without consciousness of articulation. "Dead!
Nancy! My boy! Both! Oh, God!"

CHAPTER IV

THE "YELLOW STREAK"

The grey, evening light was significant of the passing season. A chilly
breeze whipped about the faces of the men at the fringe of the woods.
They were resting after a long tramp of inspection through the virgin
forests. It was on a ledge, high up on the hillside of the northern
shore of the cove, where the ground dropped away in front of them
several hundreds of feet to the waters below. Behind them was a backing
of standing timber which sheltered them from the full force of the
biting wind.

It was nearly a week since Bat Harker had returned from his mission to
No. 10 Camp. He had returned full of satisfaction at the completion of
his task, and comforted by the knowledge that the horizon of the mill
had been cleared of threatening clouds for at least the period of a
year. Then he encountered the ricochet of the blow which Fate had dealt
his fr