aning far across to the other's
bridle, and turning both horses toward the river, but before they had
made the corner, Tom Vanrevel was running with all the speed that was
in him toward his enemy's house. The one block between him and that
forbidden ground seemed to him miles long, and he felt that he was
running as a man in a dream, and, at the highest pitch of agonized
exertion, covering no space, but only working the air in one place,
like a treadmill. All that was in his mind, heart, and soul was to reach
Crailey. He had known by the revelation of Carewe's face in what case he
would find his friend; but as he ran he put the knowledge from him
with a great shudder, and resolved upon incredulity in spite of his
certainty. All he let himself feel was the need to run, to run until he
found Crailey, who was somewhere in the darkness of the trees about the
long, low house on the corner. When he reached the bordering hedge, he
did not stay for gate or path, but, with a loud shout, hurled himself
half over, half through, the hedge, like a bolt from a catapult.

Lights shone from only one room in the house, the library; but as he
ran toward the porch a candle flickered in the hall, and there came the
sound of a voice weeping with terror.

At that he called more desperately upon his incredulity to aid him, for
the voice was Mrs. Tan-berry's. If it had been any other than she, who
sobbed so hopelessly--she who was always steady and strong! If he could,
he would have stopped to pray, now, before he faced her and the truth;
but his flying feet carried him on.

"Who is it?" she gasped, brokenly, from the hall. "Mamie? Have you
brought him?"

"It's I," he cried, as he plunged through the doorway. "It's Vanrevel."

Mrs. Tanberry set the iron candlestick down upon the table with a crash.

"You've come too late!" she sobbed. "Another man has taken your death on
himself."

He reeled back against the wall. "Oh, God!" he said. "Oh, God, God, God!
Crailey!"

"Yes," she answered. "It's the poor vagabond that you loved so well."

Together they ran through the hall to the library. Crailey was lying on
the long sofa, his eyes closed, his head like a piece of carven marble,
the gay uniform, in which he had tricked himself out so gallantly, open
at the throat, and his white linen stained with a few little splotches
of red.

Beside him knelt Miss Betty, holding her lace handkerchief upon his
breast; she was as white as he, and as mo