But save for the unnatural brightness of her eyes and the heightened
color in her face, drink seemed to have little effect on Martha Kent
that night. When at a late hour the other members of the wild company,
in various flushed and dishevelled stages of intoxication, finally
retired to their rooms, Martha, in her apartment, seated herself at the
window to look away over the calm waters of The Bend to a single light
that showed against the dark mountainside. The woman did not know that
the light she saw was in Brian Kent's room.

Long after Betty Jo had said good-night, Brian walked the floor in
uneasy wakefulness. The meeting with the man Green and his too-evident
thoughts as to the relations of the man and woman who were living
together in the log house by the river filled Brian with alarm; while
the very presence of the man from the city awoke old apprehensions that
in his months of undisturbed quiet in Auntie Sue's backwoods home had
almost ceased to be. Through Auntie Sue's teaching and influence; his
work on his book; the growing companionship of Betty Jo and their love,
Brian had almost ceased to think of that absconding bank clerk who
had so recklessly launched himself on a voyage to the unknown in the
darkness of that dreadful night. But, now, it all came back to him with
menacing strength.

The man, Green, would talk to his companions of his visit to the log
house that afternoon. He would tell what he had discovered. Curiosity
would lead others of the clubhouse party to call. Some one might
remember the story of the bank clerk, who was supposed to have lost his
life in that neighborhood, but whose body was never found. There might
even be one in the party who knew the former clerk. Through them the
story would go back to the outside world. There would be investigations
by those whose business it was never to forget a criminal who had
escaped the law.

Brian felt his Re-Creation to be fully established; but what if his
identity should be discovered before the restitution he would make
should be also accomplished? And always, as he paced to and fro in his
little room in the log house, there was, like a deep undercurrent in the
flow of his troubled thought, his love for Betty Jo.

It is little wonder that, to Brian Kent, that night, the voices of the
river were filled with fearful doubt and sullen, dreadful threatenings.

And what of the woman who watched the tiny spot of light that marked
the window of the