I was tired enough to sleep when I went to my room,

and after an eventless night, woke to a clear day and

keener air.

"I'm going to take a little run into the village, Bates,"

I remarked at breakfast.

"Very good, sir. The weather's quite cleared."

"If any one should call I'll be back in an hour or so."

"Yes, sir."

He turned his impenetrable face toward me as I rose.

There was, of course, no chance whatever that any one

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would call to see me; the Reverend Paul Stoddard was

the only human being, except Bates, Morgan and the

man who brought up my baggage, who had crossed the

threshold since my arrival.

I really had an errand in the village. I wished to

visit the hardware store and buy some cartridges, but

Pickering's presence in the community was a disturbing

factor in my mind. I wished to get sight of him,-

to meet him, if possible, and see how a man, whose

schemes were so deep, looked in the light of day.

As I left the grounds and gained the highway Stoddard

fell in with me.

"Well, Mr. Glenarm, I'm glad to see you abroad so

early. With that library of yours the temptation must

be strong to stay within doors. But a man's got to subject

himself to the sun and wind. Even a good wetting

now and then is salutary."

"I try to get out every day," I answered. "But I've

chiefly limited myself to the grounds."

"Well, it's a fine estate. The lake is altogether

charming in summer. I quite envy you your fortune."

He walked with a long swinging stride, his hands

thrust deep into his overcoat pockets. It was difficult

to accept the idea of so much physical strength being

wasted in the mere business of saying prayers in a girls'

school. Here was a fellow who should have been captain

of a ship or a soldier, a leader of forlorn hopes. I

felt sure there must be a weakness of some sort in him.

Quite possibly it would prove to be a mild estheticism

that delighted in the savor of incense and the mournful

cadence of choral vespers. He declined a cigar and this

rather increased my suspicions.

The village hack, filled with young women, passed at

a gallop, bound for the station, and we took off our hats.

"Christmas holidays," explained the chaplain. "Practically

all the students go home."

"Lucky kids, to have a Christmas to go home to!"

"I suppose Mr. Pickering got away last night?" he

observed, and my pulse quickened at the name.

"I haven't seen him yet," I answered guardedly.

"Then of course he hasn't gone!" and these words,

uttered in the big clergyman's deep tones, seemed wholly

plausible. There was, to be sure, nothing so unlikely as

that Arthur Pickering, executor of my grandfather's

estate, would come to Glenarm without seeing me.




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