good two miles of
woodland, when at length the car emerged upon a clearing and immediately
turned aside to the open doorway of a miniature garage.

For the first time in five hours he was aware of the hush of Nature; the
motor's song was ended for the night.

The clearing seemed no more than a fair two acres in extent; the forest
hemmed it in on three sides; on the fourth lay water. Nor was it an
unqualified clearing; a hundred yards distant the lighted windows of a
one-story structure shone pleasantly through a scattering plantation of
pine.

Linking arms the better to guide his guest, Ember drew him toward the
lights.

"Bungalow," he explained, sententious, flourishing his free hand:
"hermitage--retreat."

"Paradise," Whitaker summed up, in the same humour.

"Still-water swimming at the front door; surf bathing on the beach
across the bay; sailing, if you care for it; fishing, if you don't care
what you say; all sorts of civilized loafing and no society except our
own."

"No women?"

"Not a petticoat."

"No neighbours?"

"Oh"--Ember motioned to his left as they faced the water--"there's a
married establishment over there somewhere, but we don't bother one
another. Fellow by the name of Fiske. I understand the place is shut
up--Fiske not coming down this year."

"So much the better. I've been wanting just this all summer, without
realizing it."

"Welcome, then, to Half-a-loaf Lodge!"

Skirting the edges of the plantation, they had come round to the front
of the house. An open door, warm with light, welcomed them. They entered
a long and deep living-room with walls of peeled logs and, at one end, a
stone fireplace wherein a wood fire blazed heartily. Two score candles
in sconces furnished an illumination mellow and benign. At a comfortable
distance from the hearth stood a table bright with linen, silver and
crystal--covers for two. The rear wall was broken by three doors, in one
of which a rotund Chinaman beamed oleaginously. Ember hailed him by the
title of Sum Fat, explaining that it wasn't his name, but claiming for
it the virtue of exquisite felicity.

"My servant in town, here man-of-all-work; I've had him for years;
faithful and indispensable...."

Toward the end of an excellent dinner, Whitaker caught himself nodding
and blinking with drowsiness. The fatigue of their long ride, added to
the nervous strain and excitement of the previous night, was proving
more than he had strength to struggl