d robbed his
sugar-sack. Still, things might have happened differently, had not the
two dead men come out from under the stones and hushed the hot words in
his throat. They led him quite gently from the cache, which he forgot
to close. That consummation was reached; that something they had
whispered to him in his dreams was about to happen. They guided him
gently, very gently, to the woodpile, where they put the axe in his
hands.

Then they helped him shove open the cabin door, and he felt sure they
shut it after him--at least he heard it slam and the latch fall sharply
into place. And he knew they were waiting just without, waiting for him
to do his task.

'Carter! I say, Carter!' Percy Cuthfert was frightened at the look on
the clerk's face, and he made haste to put the table between them.

Carter Weatherbee followed, without haste and without enthusiasm. There
was neither pity nor passion in his face, but rather the patient,
stolid look of one who has certain work to do and goes about it
methodically.

'I say, what's the matter?'

The clerk dodged back, cutting off his retreat to the door, but never
opening his mouth.

'I say, Carter, I say; let's talk. There's a good chap.' The master of
arts was thinking rapidly, now, shaping a skillful flank movement on
the bed where his Smith & Wesson lay. Keeping his eyes on the madman,
he rolled backward on the bunk, at the same time clutching the pistol.

'Carter!' The powder flashed full in Weatherbee's face, but he swung
his weapon and leaped forward. The axe bit deeply at the base of the
spine, and Percy Cuthfert felt all consciousness of his lower limbs
leave him. Then the clerk fell heavily upon him, clutching him by the
throat with feeble fingers. The sharp bite of the axe had caused
Cuthfert to drop the pistol, and as his lungs panted for release, he
fumbled aimlessly for it among the blankets. Then he remembered. He
slid a hand up the clerk's belt to the sheath-knife; and they drew very
close to each other in that last clinch.

Percy Cuthfert felt his strength leave him. The lower portion of his
body was useless, The inert weight of Weatherbee crushed him--crushed
him and pinned him there like a bear under a trap. The cabin became
filled with a familiar odor, and he knew the bread to be burning. Yet
what did it matter? He would never need it. And there were all of six
cupfuls of sugar in the cache--if he had foreseen this he would not
have been so saving the