rm in Willits's left the
room.

CHAPTER XXIV

One winter evening some weeks after St. George's departure, Pawson sat
before a smouldering fire in Temple's front room, reading by the
light of a low lamp. He had rearranged the furniture--what was left of
it--both in this and the adjoining room, in the expectation that Fogbin
(Gorsuch's attorney) would move in, but so far he had not appeared, nor
had any word come from either Gorsuch or Colonel Rutter; nor had any
one either written or called upon him in regard to the overdue payment;
neither had any legal papers been served.

This prolonged and ominous silence disturbed him; so much so that he had
made it a point to be as much in his office as possible should his enemy
spring any unexpected trap.

It was, therefore, with some misgivings that he answered a quick,
impatient rap on his front door at the unusual hour of ten o'clock. If
it were Fogbin he had everything ready for his comfort; if it were any
one else he would meet him as best he could: no legal papers, at any
rate, could be served at that hour.

He swung back the door and a full-bearded, tightly-knit, well-built man
in rough clothes stepped in. In the dim light of the overhead lamp he
caught the flash of a pair of determined eyes set in a strong, forceful
face.

"I want Mr. Temple," said the man, who had now removed his cap and stood
looking about him, as if making an inventory of the scanty furniture.

"He is not here," replied Pawson, rummaging the intruder's face for some
clew to his identity and purpose in calling at so late an hour.

"Are you sure?" There was doubt as well as marked surprise in the man's
tone. He evidently did not believe a word of the statement.

"Very sure," rejoined the attorney in a more positive tone, his eyes
still on the stranger. "He left town some weeks ago."

The intruder turned sharply, and with a brisk inquisitive movement
strode past him and pushed open the dining-room door. There he stood
for a moment, his eyes roaming over the meagre appointments of the
interior--the sideboard, bare of everything but a pitcher and some
tumblers--the old mahogany table littered with law books and papers--the
mantel stripped of its clock and candelabras. Then he stepped inside,
and without explanation of any kind, crossed the room, opened the door
of St. George's bedroom, and swept a comprehensive glance around the
despoiled interior. Once he stopped and peered into the gl