about the middle of the afternoon when he traced her to the
cottage, but the fragment of the day remaining seemed long to him.
Golden shadows hung over the capital, but at last the sun went down in a
sea of flame and the cold night of winter gathered all within its folds.

Prescott shivered as he trod his beat like a policeman, but he was of a
tenacious fiber, and scorning alike the warnings of cold and hunger, he
remained near the house, drawing closer and watching it more zealously
than ever in the moonlight. His resolution strengthened, too; he would
stay there, if necessary, until the sunset of the next day.

More hours passed at a limping gait. The murmur of the city died, and
all was dark and still in the side street. Far into the night, nearly
twelve, it must have been, when a figure stole from the cottage and
glanced up the little ravine toward the main street, where Prescott
stood invisible in the shadow of a high wooden fence.

She did not come by the front door, but stole out from the rear. He was
convinced that he was right in his suspicions, and now every action of
this unknown woman indicated guilt to his mind.

He crouched down in an angle of the fence, hidden completely by its
shadow and the night, though he could see her well as she came up the
little street, walking with light step and watching warily on every
side. He noticed even then how strong and elastic her figure appeared
and that every step was instinct with life and vitality. She must be a
woman of more than common will and mould.

She came on, slightly increasing her speed, and did not see the dark
figure of the man by the fence. A hood was drawn to her eyes and a fold
of her cloak covered her chin. He could see now only a wisp of face like
a sickle of a silver moon, and the feeling that disturbed him in the day
did not return to him. He again imagined her cold and hard, a woman of
middle age, battered by the world, an adventuress who did not fear to go
forth in the night upon what he thought unholy errands.

She entered the main street, passed swiftly down it toward the barriers
of the city, and Prescott, with noiseless footsteps, came behind; one
shadow following the other.

None save themselves seemed to be abroad. The city was steeped in
Sabbath calm and a quiet moon rode in a quiet heaven. Prescott did not
stop now to analyze his feelings, though he knew that a touch of pique,
and perhaps curiosity, too, entered into this pursuit,