awoke with the creeping sensation of unexplainable fear. He
first thought some animal was prowling near, and, raising himself on his
elbow, looked keenly about. The appearance of the fire puzzled him. It
looked as if fresh wood had been laid upon it, but, as no one was in
sight he concluded that his own wood had been damp, and, therefore, had
burned slower.

He did not sleep again, however, and his excited thoughts trailed back to
his past and the one woman who had magically caught and held all the best
that was in him. To what point of vantage had she, poor, disabled little
soul, drifted? The world was a hard enough place for a woman, God knew,
and for her, with her sudden-born determination to rise above the squalor
of her early youth, it would be a serious problem. Boswell told him so
little. He could count on his fingers the few sharp facts his friend had
given him with the promise that if conditions changed he should know, but
if all remained well, he might be secure in his faith and hope for the
future. The future! Was there any future for him except Kenmore? And if
she heard now that he was alive, had only _seemed_ dead for her safety
and his own, would she come to him and share the dun-coloured life of the
In-Place?

She was alive; she was faithful. Boswell was making her comfortable with
Farwell's money. She was accepting less and less because she was winning
her way to independence in an honourable line. Since no man had entered
her life after Farwell's death was reported, Farwell could readily see
why.

Over and over, that first night in the woods, Farwell rehearsed these
facts for comfort's sake. Suppose he made an escape. Suppose he lost
himself in the city's labyrinth--what then?

And then, just at daybreak, a vivid and sharp memory of the woman's face
came to him as he had last seen it pressed against the bars of his cell.
Behind the squares of metal it shone like an angel's. Fair, pitiful,
wonder-filled eyes, and quivering mouth. All day the picture haunted him
and seemed to draw him toward it. He walked twenty miles that day and
came at sunset to a dense jungle where he made his camp and stretched
himself exhaustedly before the fire.

Sleep did not come easily to him; he was too excited and nerve worn. The
white face checked by iron bars would not fade, and in the red glow of
the flames it began to look wan and haggard, as if the day had tired it
and it could find no rest or comfort.

The feeling