ers."

"And who is in charge now?"

"A man named Wells--a native--the foreman from one of the sawmills--but
he--er--well, Mr. Nichols--I'm not satisfied. That's why I wanted a man
from outside."

"I understand. And will you give the necessary orders to him?"

"Wells was up here to-day, I told him."

"How many men are on guard here at the house?"

"Ten and with the three coming--that makes thirteen----" McGuire
halted--"thirteen--but you make the fourteenth," he added.

Peter nodded. "And you wish me to take charge at once?"

"At once. To-night. To-morrow you can look over the ground more
carefully. You'll sleep in the old playhouse--the log cabin--down by the
creek. They'll show you. It's connected with this house by 'phone. I'll
talk to you again to-morrow; you'd better go down and get something to
eat."

McGuire went to the door and called out "Tillie!"

And as a faint reply was heard, "Get Mr. Nichols some supper."

Peter rose and offered his hand.

"I'll try to justify your faith in me, sir. Much obliged."

"Good-night."

Peter went down the stairs with mingled feelings. If the words of Beth
Cameron had created in his mind a notion that the mystery surrounding
Black Rock was supernatural in character, the interview with Jonathan K.
McGuire had dispelled it. That McGuire was a very much frightened man
was certain, but it seemed equally certain to Peter that what he feared
was no ghost or banshee but the imminence of some human attack upon his
person or possessions. Here was a practical man, who bore in every
feature of his strongly-marked face the tokens of a successful struggle
in a hard career, the beginnings of which could not have been any too
fortunate. A westerner whose broad hands and twisted fingers spoke
eloquently of manual labor, a man who still possessed to all appearances
considerable physical strength--a prey to the fear of some night danger
which was too ominous even to be talked about.

It was the quality of his terror that was disturbing. Peter was well
acquainted with the physical aspects of fear--that is the fear of
violence and death. That kind of fear made men restless and nervous, or
silent and preoccupied; or like liquor it accentuated their weaknesses
of fiber in sullenness or bravado. But it did not make them furtive. He
could not believe that it was the mere danger of death or physical
violence that obsessed his employer. That sort of danger perhaps there
might be, but the