eenth
century--the smooth sward of a village glebe surrounded by the low
stone walls of ancient dwellings, with a timbered inn behind broad
oaks and a swinging sign. It was--in the print--serenely evening, and
long shadows slipped out through an ambient glow. Woolfolk, with
pistol elevated, became suddenly conscious of the withdrawn scene, and
for a moment its utter peace held him spellbound. It was another
world, for the security, the unattainable repose of which, he longed
with a passionate bitterness.

The wind shifted its direction and beat upon the front of the house; a
different set of windows rattled, and the blast swept compact and cold
up through the blank hall. John Woolfolk cursed his inertia of mind,
and once more addressed the profound, tragic mystery that surrounded
him.

He thought: Nicholas has gone--with Millie. Or perhaps he has left
her--in some dark, upper space. A maddening sense of impotence settled
upon him. If the man had taken Millie out into the night he had no
chance of following, finding them. Impenetrable screens of bushes lay
on every hand, with, behind them, mile after mile of shrouded pine
woods.

His plan had gone terribly amiss, with possibilities which he could
not bring himself to face. All that had happened before in his
life, and that had seemed so insupportable at the time, faded to
insignificance. Shuddering waves of horror swept over him. He raised
his hand unsteadily, drew it across his brow, and it came away
dripping wet. He was oppressed by the feeling familiar in evil
dreams--of gazing with leaden limbs at deliberate, unspeakable acts.

He shook off the numbness of dread. He must act--at once! How? A
thousand men could not find Iscah Nicholas in the confused darkness
without. To raise the scattered and meager neighborhood would consume
an entire day.

The wind agitated a rocking chair in the hall, an erratic creaking
responded, and Woolfolk started forward, and stopped as he heard and
then identified the noise. This, he told himself, would not do; the
hysteria was creeping over him again. He shook his shoulders, wiped
his palm and took a fresh grip on the pistol.

Then from above came the heavy, unmistakable fall of a foot. It was
not repeated; the silence spread once more, broken only from without.
But there was no possibility of mistake, there had been no subtlety in
the sound--a slow foot had moved, a heavy body had shifted.

At this actuality a new determination