regiment to explore. He had only to observe reasonable prudence in
entering and leaving his lair to be assured against the ordinary risks
of discovery, and he depended, too, upon the obvious negligence of the
sentinels. It was a simple application of the principle that what is
nearest to the eye is oftenest overlooked.

For where he stood he could see the huge bulk of the sky-scraper
towering into the blue. The building had been constructed upon a narrow,
triangular plot of land, and its ground-plan bore a fanciful resemblance
to the shape of a flat-iron. Its acute angle was pointed towards them;
one compared it instinctively to the prow of some gigantic ship of stone
ploughing its way through billows of brick and mortar.

"Come," said Constans, and Ulick, understanding the confidence about to
be reposed in him, followed silently.

It was a small front-room on the third floor that Constans had fitted up
as his abode, and after Ulick had passed approving judgment upon his
friend's domestic arrangement they walked over to the window and stood
there looking down into the thoroughfare upon which the building faced.
Formerly this open space had been paved with small oblong blocks of
stone, but these had long since been incorporated with the walls of the
fortress, and in their stead was a stretch of thick, short turf. Pacing
slowly along, there came in sight the figure of a man, his head bent
down and his hands clasped behind his back. Constans recognized him
instantly, even before Ulick's eager whisper had reached his ear. It was
Quinton Edge.

Constans knew that he was doing a foolish thing, but the humor of the
moment gripped him, and he yielded to it. To make sport of this
insolent, and so wipe out, in some measure, the memory of his own
humiliation--the temptation was too great to be resisted, and the next
instant the bowstring twanged and an arrow plunged into the ground, a
scant yard in front of Quinton Edge, and stuck there quivering.
Involuntarily, the Doomsman stepped back and another arrow grazed his
heel; a half turn to the right and a third shaft sheared the curling
ostrich-plume from his hat. A fourth arrow to the left of him, and then
Quinton Edge understood. He drew himself up and stood still while a
dozen more skilfully directed bolts winged their way to complete the
barbed circle that hemmed him in. And each missile bore its individual
message to his memory--a tiny tuft of scarlet inserted in the
feathe