pushed the
dead weight from off his chest and rose to his feet.

Up from the river terrace came Esmay, and behind her ran Quinton Edge.
Constans turned to meet them; then, as they gained the portico, he saw
the girl's face go white and realized dizzily the danger that still
menaced him. But he was past caring now, and so stood stupidly in his
tracks as the great, black bitch crawled up behind him, her belly close
to the ground, and crouching for her rush. He heard Quinton Edge shout
and saw him raise his hand; the dog, recognizing her master's voice,
even as she leaped, was quick to obey, arching and stiffening her back
in mid-air so as to break the force of her spring; he saw her fall in a
heap at his feet, and lie there whimpering. Whereupon, for a brief
moment, the trees seemed to bow themselves before him and the sky grew
black.

When again he found himself, he saw Quinton Edge bending over the dead
hound and inspecting, with curious attention, the ragged hole in its
chest. But the Doomsman asked no questions; he spoke, lightly and
carelessly, as was his wont.

"Fortunate that I happened to be returning from an excursion on the
river, for my pets are a difficult pair to manage, even for one who
carries a thunderbolt in his doublet-pocket. You scored nicely on poor
Blazer, but I venture to think that Fangs would have avenged her mate
had I let her have her way." He stopped and patted the brute's huge
head. "My compliments, old woman; doubtless this visitor of ours will
always remember you respectfully as one who feared neither God, man; nor
devil, but only Quinton Edge. Now be off with you." The hound licked her
master's hand and limped away. Quinton Edge straightened up and passed
his lace-edged handkerchief across his lips. Then, with smooth irony:
"An honor, indeed, to entertain so unexpected a guest at Arcadia House;
to what happy chance am I indebted?"

"That I am here should be condemnation sufficient for your purpose,"
said Constans, slowly. "I have nothing to add to it."

He hardly troubled to look up as he spoke; exhausted and dispirited as
he was, what did it matter what he answered.

"Then you do not even plead a first offence?"

Constans remained silent. Like a disobedient school-urchin, he told
himself, glowering sulkily in the presence of his tutor. Between this
man and himself lay an enmity that was deeper than the grave, and yet to
Quinton Edge he was merely the petulant boy to be scolded and