d restored the features to
something of their early good looks. Those good looks, which, backed by
the subtle tongue of the seducer, had been sufficient to attract the
weak vessel of a foolish woman's heart from the path of virtue that had
been marked out for it.

Oh, yes. Steve recognized that ghastly, lifeless face. And just for one
moment he hoped that as Death secured its stranglehold the dead creature
had recognized his. He wondered.

"Garstaing! Hervey Garstaing!"

The words sounded faintly in the heavy atmosphere. It was Steve's voice
hushed to something like a whisper. It was a passionless whisper. There
was neither contempt nor hatred in it. Neither was there a shadow of
pity.

He turned back to the lamp. He picked it up, and brought it towards the
door. The body of his would-be murderer lay sprawled across the floor
barring his way. He thrust out a foot and pushed it aside. Then he
passed on.

Without one backward glance he turned out the light, and, passing out,
made fast the door and removed his dreadful mask.

But, for a while at least, he did not return to the woman who was
awaiting him. He moved on to the great gateway of the stockade. Then he
leant against one of the gate-posts and stood breathing the pure, cold
night air, while his thoughts drifted back over a hundred scenes,
which, until that moment, had remained deep buried in the back cells of
memory. He was thinking hard, wondering and searching, striving to probe
the full meaning of the man's attack.

CHAPTER XX

THE HOME-COMING

Steve gave no sign. He saw no reason to admit anyone to the secret of
that which had transpired in the store-house. He waited for the approach
of an accompanying outfit, he searched to discover the supporters of
Hervey Garstaing in his attempt on his life, and, failing all further
development, he saw no use in sounding a note of alarm to disturb those
who looked to him for leadership and protection. Besides, he was more
than reluctant to lay bare anything that could stir afresh those
memories from which only the passing of the years had brought him peace.

So he went on with his work, that work whose completion had become
well-nigh an obsession. The dead body of Garstaing lay huddled aside,
ruthlessly flung where it could least obtrude itself and interfere with
the labours upon which he was engaged. Its presence was no matter of
concern. It lay there held safe from decay by the power of the drug
which