reason
for the old man's trepidations was something other than the ones he had
given. He had come to Black Rock from New York to avoid any possible
publicity that might result from the visits of his persecutor and was
now paying this sum of money for a respite, an immunity which at the
best could only be temporary. It was all wrong and Peter was sorry to
have a hand in it, but he couldn't deny that the interest with which he
had first approached Black Rock House had now culminated in a curiosity
which was almost an obsession. Here, close at hand, was the solution of
the mystery, and whether or not he learned anything as to the facts
which had brought McGuire's discomfiture, he would at least see and talk
with the awe-inspiring Hawk who had been the cause of them. Besides,
there was Mrs. Bergen's share in the adventure which indicated that
Beth's happiness, too, was in some way involved. For Peter, having had
time to weigh Beth's remarks with the housekeeper's, had come to the
conclusion that there had been but one man near the house that night.
The man who had talked with Mrs. Bergen at the kitchen door was not John
Bray the camera-man, or the man with the dark mustache, but Hawk Kennedy
himself.

Peter entered the path to the Cabin, and explored it carefully,
searching the woods on either side and then, cutting into the scrub oak
at the point where he and Beth had first seen the placard, made his way
to the maple tree. There was no one there. A glance at his watch under
the glare of the pocket torch showed that he was early for the tryst, so
he walked around the maple, flashing his light into the undergrowth and
at last sat down, leaning against the trunk of the tree, lighted another
cigarette and waited.

Under the depending branches of the heavy foliage it was very dark, and
he could get only the smallest glimpses of the starlit sky. At one point
toward Black Rock House beyond the boles of the trees he could see short
stretches of the distant lawn and, in the distance, a light which he
thought must be that of McGuire's bedroom, for to-night, Peter had
noticed, the shutters had been left open. It was very quiet too. Peter
listened for the sounds of approaching footsteps among the dry leaves,
but heard only the creak of branches overhead, the slight stir of the
breeze in the leaves and the whistle of a locomotive many miles away, on
the railroad between Philadelphia and Atlantic City.

The sound carried his mind be