with each passing moment it was gaining in its power to
make itself felt and heard.

Its promptings came swiftly, and in a direction hardly conceivable in
a man of his balance of mind. But the more sure the strength of the
man, the more sure the strength of the old savage lurking beneath the
sanest thought. The savage rose up in him now in a reckless challenge
to all that was best and most noble in him. A cruel suspicion swept
through his mind and quickly permeated his whole outlook. What if he
had read Kate's regard for the man Bryant wrong? What if he had read
it as she intended him to read it, seeking to blind him to the true
facts? He knew her for a clever woman, a shrewd woman, even a daring
woman. What if she had read through his evident regard for her, and
had determined to turn it to account in saving her lover from
disaster, by posing with a maternal, or sisterly regard for his
welfare? Such things he felt had been done. He was to be a tool, a
mere tool in her hands, the poor dupe whose love had betrayed him.

He sprang from his seat.

No, a thousand times no, he told himself. His memory of her beautiful,
dark, fearless eyes was too plainly in his mind for that. The honesty
of her concern and regard for the man was too simply plain to hold
any trace of the perfidy which his thought suggested. He told
himself these things. He told himself again and again, and--remained
unconvinced. The savage in him, the human nature was gaining an
ascendancy that would not be denied, and from the astute, disciplined
man he really was, at a leap, he became the veriest doubting lover.

He threw his powerful arms out, and stretched himself. His movements
were the movements of unconcern, but there was no unconcern within
him. A teeming, harassing thought was urging him, driving him to the
only possible course whereby he could hope to obtain a resumption of
his broken peace of mind.

He must see Kate. He must see her again, without delay.

* * * * *

Kate Seton was sitting in the northern shadow of her little house the
following morning when Stanley Fyles rode down the southern slope of
the valley toward the old footbridge. She had just dispatched Big
Brother Bill on an errand to the village, and, with feminine tact, had
requested him to discover Helen's whereabouts, and send her, or bring
her home. She had no particular desire that Helen should return home.
In fact, she would rather she didn'