rowled Bateese. "You mak' guess, eh?"

He began extinguishing the lights, until only the one nearest the door
was left burning. He did not turn toward Carrigan or speak to him
again. When he Went out, David heard the click of a lock in the door.
Bateese had not exaggerated. It was the intention of St. Pierre's wife
that he should consider himself a prisoner--at least for tonight.

He had no desire to lie down again. There was an unsteadiness in his
legs, but outside of that the evil of his sickness no longer oppressed
him. The staff doctor at the Landing would probably have called him a
fool for not convalescing in the usual prescribed way, but Carrigan was
already beginning to feel the demand for action. In spite of what
physical effort he had made, his head did not hurt him, and his mind
was keenly alive. He returned to the window through which he could see
the fires on the western shore, and found no difficulty in opening it.
A strong screen netting kept him from thrusting out his head and
shoulders. Through it came the cool night breeze of the river. It
seemed good to fill his lungs with it again and smell the fresh aroma
of the forest. It was very dark, and the fires across the river were
brighter because of the deep gloom. There was no promise of the moon in
the sky. He could not see a star. From far in the west he caught the
low intonation of thunder.

Carrigan turned from the window to the end of the cabin in which the
piano stood. Here, too, was the second divan, and he saw the meaning
now of two close-tied curtains, one at each side of the cabin. Drawn
together on a taut wire stretched two inches under the ceiling, they
shut off this end of the bateau and turned at least a third of the
cabin into the privacy of the woman's bedroom. With growing uneasiness
David saw the evidences that this had been her sleeping apartment. At
each side of the piano was a small door, and he opened one of these
just enough to discover that it was a wardrobe closet. A third door
opened on the shore side of the bateau, but this was locked. Shut out
from the view of the lower end of the cabin by a Japanese screen were a
small dresser and a mirror. In the dim illumination that came from the
distant lamp David bent over the open sheet of music on the piano. It
was Mascagni's AVE MARIA.

His blood tingled. His brain was stirred by a new emotion, a growing
thing that made him uneasy and filled him with a strange restlessness.
He felt