o furl down and moor her."

Griswold helped the bearers lift the blanketed figure out of the
_Clytie's_ cockpit, and while he was doing it, the steel-gray eyes of
the rescued one opened slowly to fix a stony gaze upon the face of the
man who was bending over him. What the thin lips were muttering Griswold
heard, and so did one other. "So it's you, is it, ye murdering blue-eyed
deevil?" And then: "Eh, man, man, but I'm sick!"

Griswold walked with Margery at the tail of the little procession as it
wound its way up the path to the great house.

"You heard what he said?" he inquired craftily.

"Yes: he is out of his head, and no wonder," she said soberly. Then:
"You must go home and change at once; you are drenched to the skin.
Don't wait to come in. I'll take care of your manuscript."

XXX

THE VALLEY OF DRY BONES

The cyclonic summer storm had blown itself out, and the clouds were
beginning to break away in the west, when Griswold, obeying Margery's
urging to go home and change his clothes, turned his back upon Mereside
and his face toward a future of thickening doubts and unnerving
possibilities.

Once more he found himself wrestling with the keeper of the gate, the
angel of the flaming sword set to drive him forth among the outcasts.
One by one the confidently imagined safeguards were crumbling. He had
been traced to Wahaska--so much could be read between the lines of
Charlotte Farnham's story; if Margery's newsboy protege was to be
believed, he was watched and followed. And now, after having
successfully passed the ordeal of a face-to-face meeting and
hand-shaking with Andrew Galbraith, chance or destiny or the powers of
darkness had intervened, and a danger met and vanquished had been
suddenly brought to life again, armed and menacing.

Griswold had not deceived himself, nor had he allowed Margery's apparent
convincement to deceive him. The old man's mind had not been wandering
in the eye-opening moment of consciousness regained. On the contrary,
what he had failed to do under ordinary and conventional conditions had
become instantly possible when the plunge into the dark shadow had
brushed away all the artificial becloudings of the memory page. What
action he would take when he should recover was as easy to prefigure as
it was, for the present at least, a matter negligible. The dismaying
thing was that the broad earth seemed too narrow to hide in; that
invention itself became the clumsiest of blun