r, and meaning John Sibley. Somehow she could not help playing
with this torturing thing in the presence of the wife of the man who was
the real "man in possession" so far as her life was concerned.

"Why, he is waiting on the doorstep," replied Kitty boldly and referring
only to John Sibley.

At that minute there was the crunch of gravel on the pathway and the
sound of a quick footstep. Kitty and Mona were on their feet at once.
Both recognised the step of Shiel Crozier. Presently the Young Doctor
recognised it also, but he rose with more deliberation.

At that instant a voice calling from the road arrested Crozier's advance
to the open door of the room where they were. It was Jesse Bulrush
asking a question. Crozier paused in his progress, and in the moment's
time it gave, Kitty, with a swift look of inquiry and with a burst of
the real soul in her, caught the hand of Crozier's wife and pressed it
warmly. Then, with a face flushed and eyes that looked straight ahead
of her, she left the room as the Young Doctor went to the doorway and
stepped outside. Within ten feet of the door he met Crozier.

"How goes it, patient?" he said, standing in Crozier's way. Being a man
who thought much and wisely for other people, he wanted to give the wife
time to get herself in control.

"Right enough in your sphere of operations," answered Crozier.

"And not so right in other fields, eh?"

"I've come back after a fruitless hunt. They've got me, the thieves!"
said Crozier, with a look which gave his long face an almost tragic
austerity. Then suddenly the look changed, the mediaeval remoteness
passed, and a thought flashed up into his eyes which made his expression
alive with humour.

"Isn't it wonderful, that just when a man feels he wants a rope to hang
himself with, the rope isn't to be had?" he exclaimed. "Before he can
lay his hands on it he wants to hang somebody else, and then he has to
pause whether he will or no. Did I ever tell you the story of the old
Irishwoman who lived down at Kenmare, in Kerry? Well, she used to sit at
her doorway and lament the sorrows of the world with a depth of passion
that you'd think never could be assuaged. 'Oh, I fale so bad, I am so
wake--oh, I do fale so bad,' she used to say. 'I wish some wan would
take me by the ear and lade me round to the ould shebeen, and set me
down, and fill a noggen of whusky and make me dhrink it--whether I would
or no!' Whether I would or no I have to drink the