call me Buck and I'll do as I please. I WILL go back home. I'll
get plumb out of here. Sorry I came. Sorry I ever lent myself to such a
disgusting, dishonest, dirty bribery game as this all to-night. I won't
put a dime into it, no, not a penny."

He stormed to the door leading out upon the porch, deaf to all reason.
Harran and Presley followed him, trying to dissuade him from going home
at that time of night and in such a storm, but Annixter was not to be
placated. He stamped across to the barn where his horse and buggy had
been stabled, splashing through the puddles under foot, going out of his
way to drench himself, refusing even to allow Presley and Harran to help
him harness the horse.

"What's the use of making a fool of yourself, Annixter?" remonstrated
Presley, as Annixter backed the horse from the stall. "You act just like
a ten-year-old boy. If Osterman wants to play the goat, why should you
help him out?"

"He's a PIP," vociferated Annixter. "You don't understand, Presley. It
runs in my family to hate anything sticky. It's--it's--it's heredity.
How would you like to get into bed at two in the morning and jam your
feet down into a slimy mess like that? Oh, no. It's not so funny then.
And you mark my words, Mr. Harran Derrick," he continued, as he climbed
into the buggy, shaking the whip toward Harran, "this business we talked
over to-night--I'm OUT of it. It's yellow. It's too CURSED dishonest."

He cut the horse across the back with the whip and drove out into the
pelting rain. In a few seconds the sound of his buggy wheels was lost in
the muffled roar of the downpour.

Harran and Presley closed the barn and returned to the house, sheltering
themselves under a tarpaulin carriage cover. Once inside, Harran went to
remonstrate with Osterman, who was still up. Magnus had again retired.
The house had fallen quiet again.

As Presley crossed the dining-room on the way to his own apartment in
the second story of the house, he paused for a moment, looking about
him. In the dull light of the lowered lamps, the redwood panelling of
the room showed a dark crimson as though stained with blood. On the
massive slab of the dining table the half-emptied glasses and bottles
stood about in the confusion in which they had been left, reflecting
themselves deep into the polished wood; the glass doors of the case of
stuffed birds was a subdued shimmer; the many-coloured Navajo blanket
over the couch seemed a mere patch of bro