e no other," she answered, with a
small wave of the hand out and towards the gorge down which the river
cascaded always so loudly that they both had unconsciously raised the
pitch of their voices.

From the pathway above came the sound of stray stones dislodged under
a heavy plunging tread; and there was Farrell striding down, with his
hands in his trousers' pockets.

In the right pocket he carried a revolver, which he had picked up on
his way through the house. His forefinger felt about its trigger.

He had recognised Foe through the glass. He had pelted up the path
in the old sweating terror, making for the mountain as if driven, to
call on it to cover him.

Close by Engelbaum's gate he overtook three small boys contending
around a suit-case: the point being that all three could not demand
reward for carrying so light a burden. If the owner were a fool, or
generously inclined (which amounted to the same thing), two of the
three might put in a colourable claim for services rendered.

In white countries one boy fights with another. In San Ramon as many
as fifteen can fight indiscriminately, and the vanquished are weeded
out by gradual process. Farrell shook the urchins apart, driving
them for a moment from the suit-case as one would drive three wasps
off a honey-pot. . . . It lay at his feet. Yes, he'd have recognised
it anywhere, even without help of the half-effaced "J. F." painted on
its canvas cover. It was a far-travelled piece of luggage, and
much-enduring--What are those adjectives by which Homer is always
calling Ulysses? . . . It bore many labels. One, with "Southampton"
upon it, was apparently pretty recent . . . and another with
"Waterloo."

He turned the case over while the boys eyed him, keeping their
distance. His brain worked more and more clearly. . . Foe had
returned to England, then, to pick up the trail. But how had he
struck it? . . . There was only one way. . . . He had, of course,
been obliged to send letters home from time to time--letters to his
firm, to his bankers for money--instructions to pay his housekeeper--
possibly a score of letters in all. Foe must have obtained
possession of one and spotted the postmark on the Peruvian stamp.
. . .

Of a sudden he realised his cowardice; and flushed, with shame and
manhood together, there in the pathway. . . . This thing was no
longer a duel. Three were in it now, and the third was Santa. . . .
The old scare had caught him, sur