chance. It seemed absurd--a mere chance. It was not his
way in life to wait for chances. It was for him to set out on a
purpose, and achieve or fail. Here--here, where his love was
concerned, he was committing himself to accepting chances, the
slightest chances, when the winning of Kate for his wife had become
the essence of all his hopes and ambitions.

Chance? Yes, it was all chance. The decision of Superintendent Jason.
The leadership of this gang. His success in capturing the man, when
the time came. In a moment his whole life seemed to have become a
plaything to be tossed about at the whim of chance.

So the days passed, swallowed up by feverish work and preparation.
It was work that might well be all thrown away should his recall be
insisted upon at Amberley, or, at best, might only pave the way to his
successor's more fortunate endeavors. It was all very trying, very
unsatisfactory, yet he dared not relax his efforts, with the knowledge
which he now possessed, and the thought of Kate always before him.

Several times, during those anxious days, he sought to salve his
troubled feelings by stealing precious moments of delight in the
presence of this woman he loved. But somehow Fate seemed to have
assumed a further perverseness, and appeared bent on robbing him of
even this slight satisfaction.

At such times Kate was never to be found. Small as was that little
world in the valley, it seemed to Fyles that she had a knack of
vanishing from his sight as though she had been literally spirited
away. Nor for some time could he bring himself to realize that she was
deliberately avoiding him.

She was never at home when he rode up to the house on the back of his
faithful Peter. And, furthermore, at such times as he found Helen
there, she never by any chance knew where her sister was. Even when he
chanced to discover Kate in the distance, on his rare visits to the
village, she was never to be found by the time he reached the spot at
which he had seen her. She was as elusive as a will-o'-th'-wisp.

But this could not go on forever, and, after one memorable visit to
the postoffice, where he found a letter awaiting him from
headquarters, Fyles determined to be denied no longer.

His task was less easy than he supposed, and it was not until evening
that he finally achieved his purpose.

It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening. Up to that time his search
had been utterly unavailing, and he found himself riding down