s, and as he went he pondered of many
things. Once or twice he fancied he saw a lurking shadow in the road,
that was not due to either bush or tree which bordered it. But he
thought little of the matter, so engrossed was he with the recollections
of the evening.

"Queer, what a pleasant time I had. Yet we are all, practically,
enemies. Each side feels that the other side has been at fault. Anyway,
I seem to hear Salome saying: 'Judge not my children by the mistakes of
their parents.' Nor will I; of that I am resolved. I'll give even that
top-lofty lad, Hallam, a fair show, by and by. I must test him a little
longer first, then I'll begin. That is, if he's made of the right stuff.
As for Amy, she's a witch. She's wheedled the heart right out of me with
her bright, unflinching, honest eyes. Talked to me about getting up a
'club' for the mill folks. 'The right sort of club, with books and
pictures and everything helpful.' The saucebox! and she earning the
mighty wage of two-fifty per week. Well, all in good course. I haven't
toiled a lifetime to attain my object, then relinquish it without a
little enjoyment of it; though, after all, possession isn't everything.
The struggle was about as enjoyable as the result. But I succeeded! I am
master of Fairacres, of Ardsley Mills, of half all Ardsley township. The
old family is still on top. But, I'll buy Cuthbert's great picture and
burn it up--sometime. Hmm. Wonder where that visionary Frederic Kaye is,
of whose unpractical schemes I am reaping the benefit. Odd--buried
himself in California, so to speak, and the only visible proofs that he
had ever reached that happy land are a couple of braying burros.--Hello!
hello, I say! Who's that? What's up?"

The shadow which had dogged the track of the mill owner's phaeton had
suddenly become a reality. His horse was seized, forced backward, the
horsewhip wrenched from its socket, and before he could defend himself
Mr. Wingate's head and shoulders felt the cuts of the whip, delivered in
swift and furious intensity.

"Hold on! hold--on! What--who--stop, stop, _s-t-o-p_! You're killing me!
What's wanted? It's murder--_murder_!"

And again after another visitation of stripes, that awful cry of
"mur-der!"

The word holds its own horror. No one can thus hear it shouted, in the
stillness of the night, unmoved. It affected even the ferocious
assailant of the lonely old man, and arrested his further blows.

"Murder." That meant death, pris