," he sneered as he started to follow the last man
through the door; "a hell of a lot you done for us."

"Good morning," returned Thayor, looking up--"and good-bye. You may go
to Holcomb, Dollard, for whatever is due you at once."

Dollard straightened aggressively and with an oath passed out,
slamming the door behind him. The closed door muffled somewhat the
grumbling from the group on the veranda. Now it increased, plentifully
interlarded with profanity.

Sam Thayor, sitting at his desk, did not move. He drew from a drawer
a packet of vouchers and began studying them, jotting the totals upon
the yellow pad. After a few moments the sound of heavy boots stamping
down the veranda steps reached his ears--grew fainter and died away.
Thayor started to rise. As he did so, his foot struck something heavy
and muscular beneath his desk; then a cold, wet muzzle touched his
hand.

It was the old dog.

He had been plainly visible from where the men stood during the entire
interview; he had arrived early, unperceived. The look in his brave,
gray eyes might have had something to do with Shank Dollard's exit.

On the other side of the closed door leading out to the living room,
Alice stood breathless for a quarter of an hour--listening.

She had passed a sleepless night; in the gray dawn she had left her
bed and taken a seat by the window. She had tried the balcony--but the
night air chilled her to the bone and she had gone back to bed, her
teeth chattering.

As she listened, her cheek close to the panel, straining her ears, her
heart beating fast with a dull throb, her hands like ice, there were
moments when she grew faint--the faintness of fear. Now and then she
managed to catch disconnected grumbling sentences; occasionally she
was enabled, through the glimmering light of the half-closed keyhole,
to distinguish with her strained, frightened eyes, the figure of her
husband speaking fearlessly as he flung his ultimatum in the faces of
the rough men in front of him. What manner of man was this whom she
had defied?

Suddenly an uncontrollable fear fell upon her; with a quick movement
she gathered her skirts about her and fled upstairs to her own room.

That night the photograph taken in Heidelberg, and all the letters
Sperry had written her, lay in ashes in her bedroom grate.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Before dawn Alice awoke in a fit of coughing. Her bedroom was a blank.
The open window overlooking the torrent had disa