s experience.

CHAPTER XL

Edith Boyd's child was prematurely born at the Memorial Hospital early
the next morning. It lived only a few moments, but Edith's mother never
knew either of its birth or of its death.

When Willy Cameron reached the house at two o'clock that night he found
Dan in the lower hall, a new Dan, grave and composed but very pale.

"Mother's gone, Willy," he said quietly. "I don't think she knew
anything about it. Ellen heard her breathing hard and went in, but she
wasn't conscious." He sat down on the horse-hair covered chair by the
stand. "I don't know anything about these things," he observed, still
with that strange new composure. "What do you do now?"

"Don't worry about that, Dan, just now. There's nothing to do until
morning."

He looked about him. The presence of death gave a new dignity to the
little house. Through the open door he could see in the parlor Mrs.
Boyd's rocking chair, in which she had traveled so many conversational
miles. Even the chair had gained dignity; that which it had once
enthroned had now penetrated the ultimate mystery.

He was shaken and very weary. His mind worked slowly and torpidly, so
that even grief came with an effort. He was grieved; he knew that. Some
one who had loved him and depended on him was gone; some one who loved
life had lost it. He ran his hand over his singed hair.

"Where is Edith?"

Dan's voice hardened.

"She's out somewhere. It's like her, isn't it?"

Willy Cameron roused himself.

"Out?" he said incredulously. "Don't you know where she is?"

"No. And I don't care."

Willy Cameron was fully alert now, and staring down at Dan.

"I'll tell you something, Dan. She probably saved my life to-night. I'll
tell you how later. And if she is still out there is something wrong."

"She used to stay out to all hours. She hasn't done it lately, but I
thought--"

Dan got up and reached for his hat.

"Where'll I start to look for her?"

But Willy Cameron had no suggestion to make. He was trying to think
straight, but it was not easy. He knew that for some reason Edith had
not waited until midnight to open the envelope. She had telephoned her
message clearly, he had learned, but with great excitement, saying that
there was a plot against his life, and giving the farmhouse and the
message he had left in full; and she had not rung off until she knew
that a posse would start at once. And that had been before eleven
o'clock.

Three