m glad to be friends with you, Mr. Wardour. I wish I was as well
seasoned to fatigue as you are."

Wardour burst into a hard, joyless, unnatural laugh.

"Not strong, eh? You don't look it. The dice had better have sent me
away, and kept you here. I never felt in better condition in my life."
He paused and added, with his eye on Frank and with a strong emphasis on
the words: "We men of Kent are made of tough material."

Frank advanced a step on his side, with a new interest in Richard
Wardour.

"You come from Kent?" he said.

"Yes. From East Kent." He waited a little once more, and looked hard at
Frank. "Do you know that part of the country?" he asked.

"I ought to know something about East Kent," Frank answered. "Some dear
friends of mine once lived there."

"Friends of yours?" Wardour repeated. "One of the county families, I
suppose?"

As he put the question, he abruptly looked over his shoulder. He was
standing between Crayford and Frank. Crayford, taking no part in the
conversation, had been watching him, and listening to him more and more
attentively as that conversation went on. Within the last moment or
two Wardour had become instinctively conscious of this. He resented
Crayford's conduct with needless irritability.

"Why are you staring at me?" he asked.

"Why are you looking unlike yourself?" Crayford answered, quietly.

Wardour made no reply. He renewed the conversation with Frank.

"One of the county families?" he resumed. "The Winterbys of Yew Grange,
I dare say?"

"No," said Frank; "but friends of the Witherbys, very likely. The
Burnhams."

Desperately as he struggled to maintain it, Wardour's self-control
failed him. He started violently. The clumsily-wound handkerchief fell
off his hand. Still looking at him attentively, Crayford picked it up.

"There is your handkerchief, Richard," he said. "Strange!"

"What is strange?"

"You told us you had hurt yourself with the ax--"

"Well?"

"There is no blood on your handkerchief."

Wardour snatched the handkerchief out of Crayford's hand, and,
turning away, approached the outer door of the hut. "No blood on the
handkerchief," he said to himself. "There may be a stain or two when
Crayford sees it again." He stopped within a few paces of the door,
and spoke to Crayford. "You recommended me to take leave of my brother
officers before it was too late," he said. "I am going to follow your
advice."

The door was opened from the outer side as