rn in the path, he
saw that the door of the Cabin was open and when he rushed in, prepared
for anything, he saw that the room was unoccupied. He stood aghast for a
moment, trying to adjust his mind to take in logically the evidence he
found there--the overturned chair, the blankets dragging on the floor
by the bed, the broken water pitcher, the opened bureau drawers, the
torn bits of linen--parts of his own handkerchiefs--upon the floor--all
visible signs' of a commotion, perhaps of a struggle, that had taken
place. And then under the table he espied a square of heliotrope paper.
He picked it up quickly and took it to the light of the window. It was
the envelope of the letter he had received from Anastasie Galitzin. And
what was this----? A scrawl in Beth's hand, "You left _this_ last night.
You'd better go back to Anastasie."

Bewildered for a moment, Peter stared at the forceful characters of the
handwriting, written hurriedly in a scrawl of lead pencil, and then the
probable sequence of events came to him with a rush. She had opened the
note of Anastasie Galitzin and read it. What had it said? He had
forgotten details. But there were phrases that might have been
misconstrued. And Beth----. He could see her now coming up the path, her
head high, seeking explanations--and meeting Hawk!

But where was the letter itself? He searched for it without success.
Hawk! The answer to all of his questions was in the personality of the
man as Peter knew him. The bits of torn linen and Beth's own
handkerchief, which he found in the corner of the bed against the wall,
crumpled into a ball and still moist with her tears, were mute but
eloquent evidences of her suffering and torture in the presence of this
man who had not been too delicate in the means by which he had
accomplished her subjugation.

Peter raged up and down the floor of the Cabin like a caged animal. What
must he do--which way turn? That Hawk had gagged and bound her was
obvious. But what then? He rushed outside and examined the shrubbery
around the Cabin. There was nothing to indicate the direction in which
he had taken her--and the forest at his very elbow stretched for miles
in all directions, a hiding place that had served other guilty ones
before Hawk--the New Jersey pines that he had learned to love, now
wrapped in a conspiracy of silence. It would be dusk very soon. A search
of the pine barrens at night would be hopeless. Besides, Hawk had had
the whole of the