Fairchild fixed and staring, a word
which spelled books of the past and evil threats of the future, the
single, ominous word:

"Accursed!"

CHAPTER II

One works quickly when prodded by the pique of curiosity. And in spite
of all that omens could foretell, in spite of the dull, gloomy life
which had done its best to fashion a matter-of-fact brain for Robert
Fairchild, one sentence in that letter had found an echo, had started a
pulsating something within him that he never before had known:

"--It is the blood of an adventurer."

And it seemed that Robert Fairchild needed no more than the knowledge
to feel the tingle of it; the old house suddenly became stuffy and
prison-like as he wandered through it. Within his pocket were two
envelopes filled with threats of the future, defying him to advance and
fight it out,--whatever _it_ might be. Again and again pounded through
his head the fact that only a night of travel intervened between
Indianapolis and St. Louis; within twelve hours he could be in the
office of Henry Beamish. And then--

A hurried resolution. A hasty packing of a traveling bag and the
cashing of a check at the cigar store down on the corner. A wakeful
night while the train clattered along upon its journey. Then morning
and walking of streets until office hours. At last:

"I 'm Robert Fairchild," he said, as he faced a white-haired,
Cupid-faced man in the rather dingy offices of the Princess Building.
A slow smile spread over the pudgy features of the genial appearing
attorney, and he waved a fat hand toward the office's extra chair.

"Sit down, Son," came casually. "Need n't have announced yourself. I
'd have known you--just like your father, Boy. How is he?" Then his
face suddenly sobered. "I 'm afraid your presence is the answer. Am I
right?"

Fairchild nodded gravely. The old attorney slowly placed his fat hands
together, peaking the fingers, and stared out of the window to the
grimy roof and signboards of the next building.

"Perhaps it's better so," he said at last. "We had n't seen each other
in ten years--not since I went up to Indianapolis to have my last talk
with him. Did he get any cheerier before--he went?"

"No."

"Just the same, huh? Always waiting?"

"Afraid of every step on the veranda, of every knock at the door."

Again the attorney stared out of the window.

"And you?"

"I?" Fairchild leaned forward in his chair. "I don't understand."

"Are