in its place
with a bump.

"Here," said the boy, "I'll move it for you."

It was a hard lift for him, but he set his teeth, raised the stone in
his slender hands, and set it down again at a comfortable distance from
the fire.

"Thank you," smiled Mary, but the boy stood panting against the wall,
and for answer merely bestowed on her a rather malicious glance of
triumph, as though he gloried in his superior strength and despised her
weakness.

Some conversation was absolutely necessary, for the silence began to
weigh on her. She said: "My name is Mary Brown."

"Is it?" said the boy, quite without interest. "You can call me Jack."

He sat down on the other stone, his dark face swept by the shadows of
the flames, and rolled a cigarette, not deftly, but like one who is
learning the mastery of the art. It surprised Mary, watching his
fumbling fingers. She decided that Jack must be even younger than he
looked.

She noticed also that the boy cast, from time to time, a sharp, rather
worried glance of expectation toward the door, as if he feared it would
open and disclose some important arrival. Furthermore, those old worn
shirts hanging on the wall were much too large for the throat and
shoulders of Jack.

Apparently, he lived there with some companion, and a companion of such
a nature that he did not wish him to be seen by visitors. This
explained the lad's coldness in receiving a guest; it also stimulated
Mary to linger about a few more minutes.

CHAPTER XXX

THE WHISPER OF THE KNIFE

Not that she stayed there without a growing fear, but she still felt
about her, like the protection of some invisible cloak, the presence of
the strange guide who had followed her up the valley of the Old Crow.

It seemed as if the boy were reading her mind.

"See you got two horses. Come up alone?"

"Most of the way," said Mary, and tingled with a rather feline pleasure
to see that her curtness merely sharpened the interest of Jack.

The boy puffed on his cigarette, not with long, slow breaths of
inhalation like a practised smoker, but with a puckered face as though he
feared that the fumes might drift into his eyes.

"Why," thought Mary, "he's only a child!"

Her heart warmed a little as she adopted this view-point of her surly
host. Being warmed, and having much to say, words came of themselves.
Surely it would do no harm to tell the story to this queer urchin, who
might be able to throw some light on the