ty had returned
to barracks and had discovered what had happened there. After an
interval his voice was a steady rumble. It rose higher. He heard the
crash of a chair. Then the voice ceased, and after it came the tramping
of Kedsty's feet. Not once did he catch the sound of Marette's voice,
but he was sure that in the interval of silence she was talking. Then
Kedsty's voice broke forth more furiously than before. Kent's fingers
dug into the sill of the door. Each moment added to his conviction that
Marette was in danger. It was not physical violence he feared. He did
not believe Kedsty capable of perpetrating that upon a woman. It was
fear that he would take her to barracks. The fact that Marette had told
him there was a powerful reason why Kedsty would not do this failed to
assure him. For she had also told him that Kedsty would kill her, if he
dared. He held himself in readiness. At a cry from her, or the first
move on Kedsty's part to take her from the bungalow, he would give
battle in spite of Marette's warning.

He almost hoped one of these two things would happen. As he stood
there, listening, waiting, the thought became almost a prayer. He had
Pelly's revolver. Within twenty seconds he could have Kedsty looking
down the barrel of it. The night was ideal for escape. Within half an
hour they would be on the river. They could even load up with
provisions from Kedsty's place. He opened the door a little more,
scarcely making an effort to combat the impulse that dragged him out.
Marette must be in danger, or she would not have confessed to him that
she was in the house of a man who would like to see her dead. Why she
was there did not interest him deeply now. It was the fact of the
moment that was moving him swiftly toward action.

The door below opened again, and Kent's body grew rigid. He heard
Kedsty charging through the lower hall like a mad bull. The outer door
opened, slammed shut, and he was gone.

Kent drew back into the darkness of his room. It was some moments
before he heard Marette coming slowly up the stairs. She seemed to be
groping her way, though there was a dim illumination out there. Then
she came through the door into the blackness of her room.

"Jeems," she whispered.

He went to her. Her hands reached out, and again they rested on his
arms.

"You--you didn't come down the stair?"

"No."

"You--didn't hear?"

"I heard no words. Only Kedsty's voice."

It seemed to him that her voice, w