h, if possible, the odor of his guilt.

Sandy stayed at the door with Annette, but Ruth came to the window and
asked for her mail. When she smiled at the contrite Jimmy she
scattered the few remaining ideas that lingered in his brain. With
crimson face and averted eyes, he handed her the letter, forgetting
that telegrams existed.

He saw her send a quick, puzzled glance from the letter to Sandy; he
saw her turn away from the door and tear open the envelop; then, to
his everlasting credit, he saw no more.

When he ventured forth from behind his desk the office was empty. He
made a cautious survey of the premises; then, opening a back window,
he seized a small bottle by the neck and hurled it savagely against
the brick wall opposite.

CHAPTER XX

THE IRONY OF CHANCE

The snow, which had begun as an insignificant flurry in the morning,
developed into a storm by afternoon.

Four miles from town, in a dreary stretch of country, a
dejected-looking object tramped along the railroad-track. His hat was
pulled over his eyes and his hands were thrust in his pockets. Now and
again he stopped, listened, and looked at his watch.

It was Sandy Kilday, and he was waiting for the freight-train with the
fixed intention of committing suicide.

The complications arising from Jimmy Reed's indiscretion had resulted
disastrously. When Sandy found that Ruth had read his letter, his
common sense took flight. Instead of a supplicant, he became an
invader, and stormed the citadel with such hot-headed passion and
fervor that Ruth fled in affright to the innermost chamber of her
maidenhood, and there, barred and barricaded, withstood the siege.

His one desire in life now was to quit it. He felt as if he had read
his death-warrant, and it was useless ever again to open his eyes on
this gray, impossible world.

He did not know how far he had come. Everything about him was strange
and unfriendly: the woods had turned to gaunt and gloomy skeletons
that shivered and moaned in the wind; the sunny fields of ragweed were
covered with a pall; and the river--his dancing, singing river--was a
black and sullen stream that closed remorselessly over the dying
snowflakes. His woods, his fields, his river,--they knew him not; he
stared at them blankly and they stared back at him.

A rabbit, frightened at his approach, jumped out of the bushes and
went bounding down the track ahead of him. The sight of the round
little cottontail leaping fr