eway on the side street. Whereupon
Constans determined to scale the wall at the rear and take the short cut
through the garden, so as to intercept the Doomsman at the entrance.
Once over the wall, the way was clear. Disdaining caution, he crashed
recklessly through the shrubbery, the wet and tangled grass wrapping
itself exasperatingly about his ankles as he ran. At the carriage-drive
he stopped, flinging himself full length on the ground and close against
the wall that marked the sunken way. The run had winded him, and he was
thankful for the moment's breathing-space.

From where Constans lay he could command sight of the north terrace that
connected the porticos of the river and western fronts. Suddenly it
seemed to him that the terrace was occupied by some living thing. A
moment before he had noticed a darker blur in the shadows at the river
corner; it had appeared to move. He heard a soft padding on the
flag-stones as of an animal moving cautiously. He strained his eyes,
striving to resolve that dusky blotch into shape intelligible; then a
new burst of flame lit up the western sky and he saw clearly--it was
Fangs, the hound.

The dog stood motionless, her head thrown upward as though listening.
She could not possibly see Constans where he lay, but the smallest noise
must betray him.

His revolver was in a side pocket, and he drew it forth with infinite
care. Then he discovered that it was unloaded and that he had no more
cartridges. His knife also had disappeared from its sheath; he realized
that he was absolutely unarmed and helpless.

The hound leaped lightly from the terrace and began ranging in great
half-circles. Constans looked on with fascinated eyes. It could be a
matter of seconds only when she must cross his scent, and he knew that
she would remember it--there was a blood-feud between them--the death of
Blazer, who had been her mate.

The pass-key rattled in the lock of the postern-door, and Quinton Edge
entered the sunken way. Fangs heard the noise, hesitated a moment, then
tossed her black muzzle in the air and bounded forward to meet her
master. Constans wiped away the sweat that was blinding his eyes and
waited. Quinton Edge, with the hound by his side, went up the steps
leading to the terrace.

Some one came forward to meet him--a slim, womanish figure dressed in
white. Constans's heart gave a great bound, for who but Esmay carried
her small head with so irresistible a grace. She held out her h