nch window that opened from the
terrace to the library Mrs. Keep lingered irresolutely. "Fred," she
begged, "you--you're not going to poke around in the bushes, are
you?--just because you think I'm frightened?"

Her husband laughed at her. "I certainly am NOT!" he said. "And you're
not frightened, either. Go in. I'll be with you in a minute."

But the girl hesitated. Still shattering the silence of the night the
siren shrieked relentlessly; it seemed to be at their very door, to beat
and buffet the window-panes. The bride shivered and held her fingers to
her ears.

"Why don't they stop it!" she whispered. "Why don't they give him a
chance!"

When she had gone, Fred pulled one of the wicker chairs to the edge
of the terrace, and, leaning forward with his chin in his hands, sat
staring down at the lake. The moon had cleared the tops of the trees,
had blotted the lawns with black, rigid squares, had disguised the
hedges with wavering shadows. Somewhere near at hand a criminal--a
murderer, burglar, thug--was at large, and the voice of the prison he
had tricked still bellowed in rage, in amazement, still clamored not
only for his person but perhaps for his life. The whole countryside
heard it: the farmers bedding down their cattle for the night; the
guests of the Briar Cliff Inn, dining under red candle shades; the joy
riders from the city, racing their cars along the Albany road. It woke
the echoes of Sleepy Hollow. It crossed the Hudson. The granite walls
of the Palisades flung it back against the granite walls of the prison.
Whichever way the convict turned, it hunted him, reaching for him,
pointing him out--stirring in the heart of each who heard it the lust of
the hunter, which never is so cruel as when the hunted thing is a man.

"Find him!" shrieked the siren. "Find him! He's there, behind your
hedge! He's kneeling by the stone wall. THAT'S he running in the
moonlight. THAT'S he crawling through the dead leaves! Stop him! Drag
him down! He's mine! Mine!"

But from within the prison, from within the gray walls that made the
home of the siren, each of twelve hundred men cursed it with his soul.
Each, clinging to the bars of his cell, each, trembling with a fearful
joy, each, his thumbs up, urging on with all the strength of his will
the hunted, rat-like figure that stumbled panting through the crisp
October night, bewildered by strange lights, beset by shadows,
staggering and falling, running like a mad dog in ci