an of enjoying his helpless victim.

Rage that until now had been lying cold and implacable in Steele
Weir's breast began to flame in his veins and brain. He drove his car
past the rock and off the trail upon an open grassy space, very
carefully, very quietly. Next he stopped the engine and put out the
lights, then he got out, felt his gun in its holster and gazed ahead
for an instant.

A form had passed and repassed before the window--Sorenson's figure,
of course. Brute, coward, degenerate he was, and to be dealt with as
such. Not only as such, indeed, but as a wretch who had dared to touch
Janet Hosmer against her will, to drag her from her home to this
lonely spot by violence for his own bestial purposes.

The blood seemed like to burst Steele Weir's heart. This sweet,
honest, kind-souled, noble girl! Janet Hosmer, so bright-eyed and
pure! She, who had suffered this man's hate to save Martinez'
document, who had dared peril to help him, Weir! All the hunger of
heart of years, and all the stifled affection, now went out to her. He
loved her; the veil was rent from his mind and he realized the fact
indisputably--he loved Janet Hosmer. And the great creature of an Ed
Sorenson had dared to seize her with brutal hands!

Weir broke into a run. By instinct he kept the trail, though once or
twice stumbling and once barely missing a collision with a tree. When
he reached the cabin, he dropped to a walk and crept to the window,
which was without glass or frame, open to the night. Peering in he
perceived Sorenson at the table reading a document, and as he watched
he had no need to be told this was the paper that so vitally concerned
himself.

At last Sorenson got to his feet, shaking his hand at Janet Hosmer who
sat against the cabin wall and beginning to speak. Weir listened for a
little. Then he stole along the log house to find the door.

At last his finger touched the latch. He lifted it soundlessly, as
silently pushed the door ajar until there was space for him to slip
in. This he did. His mouth was shut hard, his eyes watchful, his right
hand was closed about the butt of his revolver still resting in the
holster.

Over Sorenson's shoulder he saw Janet Hosmer's face, pale and drawn
but with a sudden joy flaming there. If ever gratitude were written on
human countenance, it was on hers. Gratitude--and more! Something that
sent Steele Weir's blood rushing anew through his body, with hope,
with a song, with he knew n