. The rain beat his face,
blinding him momentarily, and before he could see clearly a dark mass
pounded by, swift hoofs spattering mud all over him.

Down the road sped Peter on the horse--down the road and towards the
foot-bridge. Mirestone ran a few steps and halted. He heard the hollow
staccato of horse's hoofs on the planks for an instant, followed by a
splintering crash that rumbled up from the gorge. A long, guttural cry
pierced the black gloom as man and horse plunged down to the seething
death awaiting them.

Cursing savagely, Milestone trudged back through the rain to the house.
He slammed the door shut and threw his cloak on Peter's bed. There was
one more bottle on the shelf; he smashed the neck and poured a glass. If
one could see him bent over the table sending silent curses into his
wine, he could readily imagine the feeling of defeat that had spread
over Mirestone's countenance. The idiot of a Dutchman who had to play
the hero's part and save other lives by ending his own made Mirestone
fairly sick. However, all was not over. So the Dutchman had died; the
hex had worked--a lot sooner than he had expected though. Now he
certainly would be delayed in his progress, for he had counted on
examining the body for any traces left that would suggest something out
of the ordinary. One thing, however, he had learned was that the hex at
least worked on humans. The mangled body that was being washed over the
rocks would be enough proof on that score.

Mirestone poured another drink. He leaned back in the chair and placed
the glass to his lips. He was tilted so far back that as he raised the
wine to a drinking position, it blocked his view of the room. As he
slowly sipped it, however, the room began to come into view--the ceiling
first and slowly the wall. His eyes focused on a piece of thread hanging
from the ceiling, and as the wine sank lower and lower in the glass, the
thread grew longer and longer until in one last swallow he was able to
see the end of the line.

Mirestone's hand went stiff as he looked at the thread, for on the end
of it was a pure white feather.

* * * * *

In an instant Mirestone realized that the hex had not worked. Peter's
death at the bridge had been a grotesque coincidence. Had the untimely
plunge in the rapids been the result of the hex the feather would have
long since been red, therefore, the tragedy was no more than an accident
and Mirestone's hands