t's go up."

"I suppose if I tell Onnie San's with me, she'll just change to my
door," Rawling considered; "but I'll try. Poor girl, she's faithful as a
dog!"

They mounted softly and beheld her, huddled in a blanket, mountainous,
curled outside Sanford's closed door, just opposite the head of the
stairs. Rawling stooped over the heap and spoke to the tangle of
blue-shadowed hair.

"Onnie Killelia, go to bed."

"Leave me be, your Honor. I'm--"

Sleep cut the protest. The rattles sounded feebly, and Rawling stood up.

"Just like a dog," whispered Bill, stealing off to a guest-room. "I'll
leave my door open." He patted the revolver in his jacket and grinned
affectionately. "Good-night, Boss."

Rawling touched the switch inside his own door, and the big globe set in
the hall ceiling blinked out. They had decided that, supposing the
cockney got so far, a lightless house would perplex his feet, and he
would be the noisier. Rawling could reach this button from his bed, and
silently undressed in the blackness, laying the automatic on the bedside
table, reassured by all these circling folk, Onnie, stalwart Bill, and
the loyal men out in the rain. Here slept Sanford, breathing happily, so
lost that he only sighed when his father crept in beside him, and did
not rouse when Rawling thrust an arm under his warm weight to bring him
closer, safe in the perilous night.

The guest-room bed creaked beneath Bill's two hundred pounds of muscle,
and Ling snored in Peter's room. Rawling's nerves eased on the mattress,
and hypnotic rain began to deaden him, against his will. He saw Percival
sodden in some ditch, his knife forgotten in brandy's slumbers. No shout
came from the hillside. His mind edged toward vacancy, bore back when
the boy murmured once, then he gained a mid-state where sensation was
not, a mist.

* * *

He sat up, tearing the blankets back, because some one moved in the
house, and the rain could be heard more loudly, as if a new window were
open. He swung his legs free. Some one breathed heavily in the hall.
Rawling clutched his revolver, and the cold of it stung. This might be
Onnie, any one; but he put his finger on the switch.

"Straight hover--hover the way it was," said a thick, puzzled voice.
"There, that one! 'Is bloody barth!"

The rattles whirred as if their first owner lived. Rawling pressed the
switch.

"Your Honor!" Onnie screamed. "Your Honor! Master San! Be lockin' the
door inside, Master San!