redit. But as soon as it
was known that this was no longer his, one or two creditors would come
down on him and start an avalanche. And then, though Riley had promised
not to prosecute, it was inevitable that some suspicion of crookedness
would attach to him. Under the circumstances he was forced to the
conclusion that he had played out his string. He had been wise to secure
cash. He could raise a few thousand more, and as soon as he did so he
would pull out. At once he began to convert his few remaining assets,
and as he turned them into cash he put it in his office safe, in a
private compartment. The total formed a nice nest egg for the future.
His creditors in the course of time might get judgment and be hanged to
them, but the cash would be where it could not be tied up by
injunctions.

Nevertheless, the strain told on his nerves. For some time he had slept
badly, and now he slept scarcely at all. Whisky, which formerly had had
a soporific effect, now failed, though he doubled the quantity.

And so, as Angus rode home through the darkness, Mr. Braden lay awake.
His mind, after the habit of the insomniac, searched for, dug up and
turned over the most unpleasant things within his recollection, driving
sleep farther and farther away. It dwelt upon mistakes, failures,
humiliations of years before. The wind roared and rain splashed upon the
windows; and Mr. Braden, cursed by a thousand plaguing little devils of
memory, cursed the night and the darkness and longed for day.

At last he dozed, but was awakened by a muffled, jarring reverberation
which shook his bed slightly. It was much like localized thunder. He lay
listening, and his ear caught a sound below.

Somebody was in his office. In an instant he was out of bed. He
reflected that the boss of a local logging camp who had a payroll to
meet the next day, had deposited a considerable amount of cash in his
safe. No doubt that was what the robbers were after. But they would not
overlook his own cash, too. He could not obtain help until too late. He
must stop them single-handed, if at all.

His knees shaking slightly, Mr. Braden padded softly across the room to
a wardrobe from which he took an old hammer ten-gauge shotgun, found a
box of antique shells, and filled the chambers. Then he stole cautiously
down stairs.

The door of his office was closed. He turned the knob and gently opened
the door a crack. In the darkness the rays of a flashlight flickered on
his op