ance, lit
up her hair with shimmering gold; her eyes, Keith saw, were a clear and
wonderful gray--and they stared at him as he entered, while the poise
of her body and the tenseness of her face gave evidence of sudden and
unusual emotion. These things Keith observed in a flash; then he turned
toward McDowell.

The Inspector sat behind a table covered with maps and papers, and
instantly Keith was conscious of the penetrating inquisition of his
gaze. He felt, for an instant, the disquieting tremor of the criminal.
Then he met McDowell's eyes squarely. They were, as Conniston had
warned him, eyes that could see through boiler-plate. Of an indefinable
color and deep set behind shaggy, gray eyebrows, they pierced him
through at the first glance. Keith took in the carefully waxed gray
mustaches, the close-cropped gray hair, the rigidly set muscles of the
man's face, and saluted.

He felt creeping over him a slow chill. There was no greeting in that
iron-like countenance, for full a quarter-minute no sign of
recognition. And then, as the sun had played in the girl's hair, a new
emotion passed over McDowell's face, and Keith saw for the first time
the man whom Derwent Conniston had known as a friend as well as a
superior. He rose from his chair, and leaning over the table said in a
voice in which were mingled both amazement and pleasure:

"We were just talking about the devil--and here you are, sir!
Conniston, how are you?"

For a few moments Keith did not see. HE HAD WON! The blood pounded
through his heart so violently that it confused his vision and his
senses. He felt the grip of McDowell's hand; he heard his voice; a
vision swam before his eyes--and it was the vision of Derwent
Conniston's triumphant face. He was standing erect, his head was up, he
was meeting McDowell shoulder to shoulder, even smiling, but in that
swift surge of exultation he did not know. McDowell, still gripping his
hand and with his other hand on his arm, was wheeling him about, and he
found the girl on her feet, staring at him as if he had newly risen
from the dead.

McDowell's military voice was snapping vibrantly, "Conniston, meet Miss
Miriam Kirkstone, daughter of Judge Kirkstone!"

He bowed and held for a moment in his own the hand of the girl whose
father he had killed. It was lifeless and cold. Her lips moved, merely
speaking his name. His own were mute. McDowell was saying something
about the glory of the service and the sovereignty of