ing to strike me. Had
he done so I should have been ended there and then, and this
interesting history brought to an untimely conclusion on the very eve
of its most interesting disclosures.

But he thought better of it and with a shaking forefinger pointed
toward the path downstream. "Go, Roger," he said in a trembling voice,
"please go."

CHAPTER XXII

THE CHIPMUNK

I obeyed. There was nothing left for me to do. Our afternoon had ended
in disaster, but I was not sorry. I had thought from all Jerry had
told me that he was beginning to awaken, to rouse himself and tear
asunder the web of enchantment that this girl Marcia had woven about
him. I had meant to help him lift the veil to let him see her as she
was, a beautiful, selfish little sensualist with a silken voice and an
empty heart. But the time was not yet. I sighed, lamenting my failure
but not regretting my temerity. If he would not waken at least I had
the satisfaction of knowing it was not because I had not tried to wake
him.

I made my way down over the rocks, casting a glance over my shoulder
toward Jerry as I descended. He was following slowly, his hands behind
him, his head down, the pipe hanging bowl downward in his teeth. There
was anger in his appearance but there was something of reflection,
too. Down on a lower level where the going was easier I paused,
deliberating whether I shouldn't put my pride in my pocket and braving
rebuffs, wait for him. I had half decided to choose this ignominious
course when in the path ahead of me at some distance away I espied a
figure walking toward me. I was deep in the shadow and the person, a
female, had not espied me, but I could see her quite clearly in the
sunlight. There was no mistaking her curious gait. It was Marcia Van
Wyck, come at pains which must convince of her contrition, to make
peace with Jerry.

I looked again to be sure that my eyes had not deceived me and then
jumped into the underbrush beside the path and hid myself under a
projection of nearby rock. I disliked the girl intensely and hated the
sight of her, and this must, I suppose, account for the sudden impulse
which led to my undignified retreat. Had I known in advance of the
unfortunate situation in which it would have placed me, I should have
faced her boldly or have fled miles away from that spot, to be forever
associated in my mind with the one really discreditable experience of
my career. I have always been, I think, an honora