first."

When the last echo of their eluded pursuers had died in the distant
uplands, Turnbull began to unpack the provisions with the easy air of
a man at a picnic. He had just laid out the last items, put a bottle
of wine on the floor, and a tin of salmon on the window-ledge, when the
bottomless silence of that forgotten place was broken. And it was broken
by three heavy blows of a stick delivered upon the door.

Turnbull looked up in the act of opening a tin and stared silently at
his companion. MacIan's long, lean mouth had shut hard.

"Who the devil can that be?" said Turnbull.

"God knows," said the other. "It might be God."

Again the sound of the wooden stick reverberated on the wooden door. It
was a curious sound and on consideration did not resemble the ordinary
effects of knocking on a door for admittance. It was rather as if the
point of a stick were plunged again and again at the panels in an absurd
attempt to make a hole in them.

A wild look sprang into MacIan's eyes and he got up half stupidly, with
a kind of stagger, put his hand out and caught one of the swords. "Let
us fight at once," he cried, "it is the end of the world."

"You're overdone, MacIan," said Turnbull, putting him on one side. "It's
only someone playing the goat. Let me open the door."

But he also picked up a sword as he stepped to open it.

He paused one moment with his hand on the handle and then flung the door
open. Almost as he did so the ferrule of an ordinary bamboo cane came at
his eyes, so that he had actually to parry it with the naked weapon in
his hands. As the two touched, the point of the stick was dropped very
abruptly, and the man with the stick stepped hurriedly back.

Against the heraldic background of sprawling crimson and gold offered
him by the expiring sunset, the figure of the man with the stick showed
at first merely black and fantastic. He was a small man with two wisps
of long hair that curled up on each side, and seen in silhouette, looked
like horns. He had a bow tie so big that the two ends showed on each
side of his neck like unnatural stunted wings. He had his long black
cane still tilted in his hand like a fencing foil and half presented
at the open door. His large straw hat had fallen behind him as he leapt
backwards.

"With reference to your suggestion, MacIan," said Turnbull, placidly, "I
think it looks more like the Devil."

"Who on earth are you?" cried the stranger in a high shrill voic