maybe, but from here, with the first dimness of the new
night upon everything, there seemed no way through.

Each man, the silent meal done, threw his bed where he saw fit, apart
from the others. Sothern, having aided Ernestine, telling her good
night and receiving a wan smile of gratitude, went back to the fire
where Max was brooding. The lieutenant looked up, glad of the
companionship. The two men from silence grew to talk in low voices.
Max had something he wanted to say and the opportunity for saying it
seemed to have come. He looked about him, saw Drennen's form and
George's through the trees, saw where Ernestine was stamping out the
glowing embers of her fire, and began to speak. Something else he saw
and forgot, its being of no importance to his brain. It was merely the
pipe which Drennen had laid upon a stone near the camp fire and had
left there when he had gone away.

But Drennen, being in no mood for sleep, missed his pipe. Coming back
toward the fire a little later it happened that he approached behind
the two men's backs and in the thick shadows. It happened, too, that
they were very deep in their own thoughts and conversation and that
they did not hear him until he had caught a part of their talk. After
that Drennen, grown as still as the rocks about him, listened and made
no sound. He had caught the words from Max:

". . . a man named Drennen; an embezzler. Not a common name, is it?
I've a notion that this David Drennen is the son of that John Harper
Drennen."

Drennen, listening, got nothing from this, but stood still, frowning
and wondering. His eyes, upon Max's face outlined by the fire, took no
note of Sothern's.

"We've got the report," went on Max thoughtfully, "that the other
Drennen, John Harper Drennen, is somewhere in this country. Lord," and
he laughed softly, "it would be some white feather in my cap if I could
bring the old fox in, wouldn't it, Mr. Sothern? He's given the police
the slip for a dozen years."

Now, Drennen, with a quick start of full understanding, looked
anxiously at the old man. Sothern's face stood in clear relief against
the fire. There came no change into it; he looked gravely at Max, drew
a moment contemplatively at his pipe, and then in a voice grave and
steady answered:

"John Harper Drennen. . . . I remember the name. The papers were full
of it. But wasn't he reported to have died a long time ago?"

"A dodge as old as the hills," grunted M