s fist at his own statue in the
facade of Britt Block. The moonlight revealed the complacent features;
the cocky pose of serene confidence presented by the effigy affected the
disheartened original with as acute a sense of exasperation as he would
have felt if the statue had set thumb to nose and had wriggled the stone
fingers in impish derision.

"Gid-dap" Jones and a few citizens who could not make up their minds to
go to bed till they had sucked all the sweetness out of an extraordinary
evening in Egypt, were walking up and down the tavern porch, cooling
off. Mr. Britt, tramping past, shook his fist at them, too.

"Hope you enjoyed the music!" suggested Jones, wrought up to a pitch
where he would not be bull-dozed even by "Phay-ray-oh."

"Yes, and I hope we'll have some more to-morrow night," retorted the
banker. "You still have the poorhouse, the cattle pound, and the lockup
to serenade."

"All right! Which one of 'em do you expect to be in?" inquired Jones.
"We wouldn't have you miss a tune for the world!"

When Britt arrived in the shadows of his own porch he stood and looked
out over Egypt and cursed the people, in detail and in toto. He had
become a monomaniac. He had set himself to accomplish one fell purpose.

In his office, earlier that day, he had resolved upon revenge; but
his natural caution had served as a leash, and he had pondered on no
definite plans that might prove dangerous. Now only one fear beset
him--the fear that he would not be able to think up and put through a
sufficiently devilish program.

He banged his door behind him and lighted a lamp which he kept on a
stand in the hall. He creaked upstairs in the lonely house. His sense of
loneliness was increased when he reflected that Vona would not be at her
desk in the morning.

The village watchman noted that the reflector lamp shone all night on
the door of the vault in the Egypt Trust Company; it was the watchman's
business to keep track of that light. But he noted also, outside of his
regular business, that there was a light for most of the night in Tasper
Britt's bedroom.

CHAPTER X

THE MAN WHO WAS SORRY

It was a heavy dawn, next day; a thaw had set in and a drizzle of rain
softened the snow; gray clouds trailed their draperies across the top of
Burkett Hill.

Landlord Files had trouble in getting his kitchen fire started--in the
sluggish air the draught was bad. Mr. Files's spirits were as heavy as
the air. He knew it wa