Bailey Harbor before daybreak, and he went upstairs and
hurriedly began dressing.

[Illustration: At the crack of the gun the fugitive stopped short]

But for the tangible evidence of the smashed mirror (the bullet had
pierced the wooden back and was imbedded in the wall behind it) he might
have dismissed the whole thing as a nightmare. Instinctively he began
building up an alibi and planning his flight. The druggist who had given
him the key and the taxi driver both supposed that he had inspected the
house and taken the evening train for Boston. As he got into his clothes
he decided to make a wide detour of the town, perhaps tramping on to
Portsmouth, and there recover his bag and be off for the Rockies.

At one o'clock he was drinking coffee and munching toast and jam to
fortify himself for his journey. He had shot and perhaps killed a man,
and his mind surged now with self-accusations. He needn't have fired the
shot--the thief was running away and very likely would not have molested
him further. He was sorry for the fellow, wounded or dead; but in a
moment he was shuddering as he reflected that the bullet that splintered
the mirror had really been meant for him, and it had struck with great
precision just where the reflection of his head had presented a fair
target to the startled marksman.

He turned out the lights and placing the key under the door mat stole
through the garden. The man he had shot might even now be lying dead in
his path, and he lifted his feet high to avoid stumbling over the
corpse. But more appalling was the thought that the fugitive might be
lying in ambush, and he carried his pistol before him at arm's length
against such an emergency.

He gained the road, glanced toward the house and set off in the general
direction of the New Hampshire border.

V

There was neither star nor moon, and a chill wet wind bore in from the
sea. His immediate business was to get as far away from Bailey Harbor as
possible. He started with a long swinging stride that was quickly
arrested as he splashed through pools left by the rain or stumbled off
the road where it turned sharply. Once he wandered into a driveway and
seeking a way out crashed into a sunken garden. His feet were wet and
his trousers flapped heavily about his legs. The shrubbery pricked him
like barbed wire and a scratch along his cheek bled most disagreeably.
He hurriedly felt his way along a hedge to the highway, hating himself
with the gr