that made his pulse jump quickest. Marette had not
forgotten that he might grow hungry. It was laid sumptuously, with a
plate for one, but with food for half a dozen. There were a brace of
roasted grouse, brown as nuts; a cold roast of moose meat or beef; a
dish piled high with golden potato salad; olives, pickles, an open can
of cherries, a loaf of bread, butter, cheese--and one of Kedsty's
treasured thermos bottles, which undoubtedly held hot coffee or tea.
And then he noticed what was on the chair--a belt and holster and a
Colt automatic forty-five! Marette had not figured on securing a gun in
the affair at barracks, and her foresight had not forgotten a weapon.
She had placed it conspicuously where he could not fail to see it at
once. And just beyond the chair, on the floor, was a shoulder-pack. It
was of the regulation service sort, partly filled. Resting against the
pack was a Winchester. He recognized the gun. He had seen it hanging in
Dirty Fingers' shack.

For a matter of five minutes he scarcely moved from where he stood
beside the table. Nothing but an unplastered roof was between him and
the storm, and over his head the thunder crashed, and the rain beat in
torrents. He saw where the window was, carefully covered with a
blanket. Even through the blanket he caught faintly the illumination of
lightning. This window overlooked the entrance to Kedsty's bungalow,
and the idea came to him of turning out the light and opening it. In
darkness he took down the blanket. But the window itself was not
movable, and after assuring himself of this fact he flattened his face
against it, peering out into the chaos of the night.

In that instant came a flare of lightning, and to Kent, looking down,
was revealed a sight that tightened every muscle in his body. More
vividly than if it had been day he saw a man standing below in the
deluge. It was not Mooie. It was not Kedsty. It was no one that he had
ever seen. Even more like a ghost than a man was that apparition of the
lightning flare. A great, gaunt giant of a ghost, bare-headed, with
long, dripping hair and a long, storm-twisted beard. The picture shot
to his brain with the swiftness of the lightning itself. It was like
the sudden throwing of a cinema picture on a screen. Then blackness
shut it out. Kent stared harder. He waited.

Again came the lightning, and again he saw that tragic, ghost-like
figure waiting in the storm. Three times he saw it. And he knew that
the