e
uncanniness of it all. He imagined he saw, off in the big square
library across the way, in the very spot he had seen them lay out his
grandfather--Maggie, and she arose suddenly from out of his
grandfather's casket and beckoned to him with--

"I love you so--I love _you_ so!"

It was so real, he walked to the spot and put his hands on the black
mohair Davenport. And the form on it, sitting bolt upright, was but
the pillow he had napped on that afternoon.

He laughed and it sounded hollow to him and echoed down the hall:

"How like her it looked!"

He walked into Harry's room and lit the lamp there. He smiled when he
glanced around the walls. There were hunting scenes and actresses in
scant clothing. Tobacco pipes of all kinds on the tables, and stumps
of ill-smelling cigarettes, and over the mantel was a crayon picture
of Death shaking the dice of life. Two old cutlasses crossed
underneath it.

On his writing desk Travis picked up and read the copy of the note
written to Helen the day before.

He smiled with elevated eyebrows. Then he laughed ironically:

"The little yellow cur--to lie down and quit--to throw her over like
that! Damn him--he has a yellow streak in him and I'll take pleasure
in pulling down the purse for him. Why, she was born for me anyway!
That kid, and in love with Helen! Not for The Gaffs would I have him
mix up with that drunken set--nor--nor, well, not for The Gaffs to
have him quit like that."

And yet it was news to him. Wrapped in his own selfish plans, he had
never bothered himself about Harry's affairs.

But he kept on saying, as if it hurt him: "The little yellow cur--and
he a Travis!" He laughed: "He's got another one, I'll bet--got her
to-night and by now is securely engaged. So much the better--for my
plans."

Again he went into the hall and walked to and fro in the dim light.
But the Davenport and the pillow instantly formed themselves again
into Maggie and the casket, and he turned in disgust to walk into his
own room.

Above his head over the doorway in the hall, on a pair of splendid
antlers--his first trophy of the chase,--rested his deer gun, a clean
piece of Damascus steel and old English walnut, imported years
before. The barrels were forty inches and choked. The small bright
hammers rested on the yellow brass caps deep sunk on steel nippers.
They shone through the hammer slit fresh and ready for use.

He felt a cold draught of air blow on him and turned in sur