wind.
He ventured down a little way -- near enough to see the black cinders ofthe burned bar, and close enough to hear the lake waters slapping thesandy shore.
If he dared----
And after a long while he ventured to waddle nearer, slinking throughthe brush and frosted weed, creeping behind boulders, edging alwayscloser and closer to that silent house where nothing moved except thewind-blown door.
And now, at last, he set a furtive foot upon the threshold, stoodlistening, tip-toed in, peered here and there, sidled to thedining-room, peered in.
* * * * *
When, at length, Emanuel Sard discovered that Clinch's Dump wastenantless, he made straight for the pantry. Here was cheese, crackers,an apple pie, half a dozen bottles of home-brewed beer.
He loaded his arms with all they could carry, stole through thedance-hall out to the veranda, which overlooked the lake.
Here, hidden in the doorway, he could watch the road from Ghost Lake andsurvey the hillside down which an intruder must come from the forest.
And here Sard slaked his raging thirst and satiated the gnawing appetiteof the obese, than which there is no crueller torment to an inert liverand distended paunch.
Munching, guzzling, watching, Sard squatted just within the verandadoorway, anxiously considering his chances.
He knew where he was. At the foot of the lake, and eastward, he hadbeen robbed by a highwayman on the forest road branching from the mainhighway. Southwest lay Ghost Lake and the Inn.
Somewhere between these two points he must try to cross the State Road.... After that, comparative safety. For the miles that still would liebetween him and distant civilisation seemed as nothing to the horror ofthat hell of trees.
He looked up now at the shaggy fringing woods, shuddered, opened anotherbottle of beer.
In all that panorama of forest, swale, and water the only thing that hadalarmed him at all by moving was something in the water. When first henoticed it he almost swooned, for he took it to be a swimming dog.
In his agitation he had risen to his feet; and then the swimmingcreature almost frightened Sard out of his senses, for it tiltedsuddenly and went down with a report like the crack of a pistol.
However, when Sard regained control of his wits he realised that aswimming dog doesn't dive and doesn't whack the water with its tail.
He dimly remembered hearing that beavers behaved that way.
Watching the water he saw the thing out there in the lake again,swimming in erratic circles, its big, dog-like head well out of thewater.
It certainly was no dog. A beaver, maybe. Whatever it was, Sard didn'tcare any longer.
Idly he watched it. Sometimes, when it swam very near, he made a suddenmotion with his far arm; and crack! -- with a pistol-shot report down itdived. But always it re-appeared.
What had a creature like that to do with him? Sard watched it withfailing interest, thinking of other things -- of Quintana and thechances that the dogs had caught him, -- of Sanchez, the Ghoul, hopingthat dire misfortune might overtake him, too; -- of the dead mansprawling under the cedar-tree, all sopping crimson---- Faugh!
Shivering, Sard filled his mouth with apple-pie and cheese and pulledthe cork from another bottle of home-brewed beer.
* * * * *
III
About that time, a mile and a half to the southward, James Darragh cameout on the rocky and rushing outlet to Star Pond.
Over his shoulder was a rifle, and all around him ran dogs, -- big,powerful dogs, built like foxhounds but with the rough, wiry coats ofAiredales, even rougher of ear and features.
The dogs, -- half a dozen or so in number, -- seemed very tired. Allran down eagerly to the water and drank and slobbered and panted,lolling their tongues, and slaking their thirst again and again alongthe swirling edge of a deep trout pool.
Darragh's rifle lay in the hollow of his left arm; his khaki waistcoatwas set with loops full of cartridges. From his left wrist hung araw-hide whip.
Now he lad aside his rifle and whip, took from the pocket of hisshooting coat three or four leather dog-leashes, went down among thedogs and coupled them up.
They followed him back to the bank above. Here he sat down on a rockand inspected his watch.
He had been seated there for ten minutes, possibly, with his tired dogslying around him, when just above him he saw a State Trooper emerge fromthe woods on foot, carrying a rifle over one shoulder.
"Jack!" he called in a guarded voice.
Trooper Stormont turned, caught sight of Darragh, made a signal ofrecognition, and came toward him.
Darragh said: "Your mate, Trooper Lannis, is down stream. I've two ofmy own game wardens at the cross-roads, two more on the Ghost Lake Road,and two foresters and an inspector out toward Owl Marsh."
Stormont nodded, looked down at the dogs.
"This isn't the State Forest," said Darragh, smiling. Then his facegrew grave: "How is Eve?" he asked.
"She's feeling better," replied Stormont. "I telephoned to Ghost LakeInn for the hotel physician. ... I was afraid of pneumonia, Jim. Evehad chills last night. ... But Dr. Claybourn thinks she's all right. ...So I left her in care of your housekeeper."
"Mrs. Ray will look out for her. ... You haven't told Eve who I am, haveyou?"
"No."
"I'll tell her myself to-night. I don't know how she'll take it whenshe learns I'm the heir to the mortal enemy of Mike Clinch."
"I don't know either," said Stormont.
There was a silence; the State Trooper looked down at the dogs:
"What are they, Jim?"
"Otter-hounds," said Darragh, "-- a breed of my own. ... But that's_all_ they are capable of hunting, I guess," he added grimly.
Stormont's gaze questioned him.
Darragh said: "After I telephoned you this morning that a guest of mineat Harrod Place, and I, had been stuck up and robbed by Quintana'soutfit, what did you do, Jack?"
"I called up Bill Lannis first," said Stormont, "-- then the doctor.After he came, Mrs. Ray arrived with a maid. Then I went in a spoke toEve. Then I did what you suggested -- I crossed the forest diagonallytoward The Scaur, zig-zagged north, turned by the rock hog-back south ofDrowned Valley, came southeast, circled west, and came out here as youasked me to."
"Almost on the minute," nodded Darragh. ... "You saw no signs ofQuintana's gang?"
"None."
"Well," said Darragh, "I left my two guests at Harrod Place to amuseeach other, got out three couple of my otter-hounds and started them, --as I hoped and supposed, -- on Quintana's trail."
"What happened?" inquired Stormont curiously.
"Well -- I don't know. I think they were following some of Quintana'sgang -- for a while, anyway. After that, God knows, -- deer, hare,cotton-tail -- _I_ don't know. They yelled their bally heads off -- Ion the run -- they're slow dogs, you know -- and whatever they wereafter either fooled them or there were too man trails. ... I made amistake, that's all. These poor beasts don't know anything except anotter. I just _hoped_ they might take Quintana's trail if I put them onit."
"Well," said Stormont, "it can't be helped now. ... I told Bill Lannisthat we'd rendezvous at Clinch's Dump."
"All right," nodded Darragh. "Let's keep to the open; my dogs areleashed couples."
They had been walking for twenty minutes, possibly, exchanging scarcelya word, and they were now nearing the hilly basin where star Pond lay,when Darragh said abruptly:
"I'm going to tell you about things, Jack. You've taken my word so farthat it's all right----"
"Naturally," said Stormont simply.
The two men, who had been brother officers in the Great War, glanced ateach other, slightly smiling.
"Here it is then," said Darragh. "When I was on duty in Riga for theIntelligence Department, I met two ladies in dire distress, whosemansion had been burned and looted, supposedly by the Bolsheviki.
"They were actually hungry an penniless; the only clothing theypossessed th
ey were wearing. These ladies were the CountessOrloff-Strelwitz, and a young girl, Theodorica, Grand Duchess ofEsthonia. ... I did what I could for them. After a while, in the courseof other duty, I found out that the Bolsheviki had had nothing to dowith the arson and robbery, but that the crime had been perpetrated byJose Quintana's gang of international crooks masquerading asBolsheviki."
Stormont nodded: "I also came across similar cases," he remarked.
"Well, this was a flagrant example. Quintana had burnt the chateau andmade off with over two million dollars worth of the little GrandDuchess's jewels -- among them the famous Erosite gem known as TheFlaming Jewel."
"I've heard of it."
"There are only two others known. ... Well, I did what I could with
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