on with strange echoes from another time--from another world,
it seemed, sounding in his ears. The sight of Teevan, the tones of his
voice, faintly heard, seemed to awaken him from some dream in which he
walked, awaken him to a time when the little man was his good friend. He
felt a sudden nausea, but then he raised his eyes to the Bartell house
opposite and was himself again. He crossed the street and stood a moment
before the door, seeing his lady there, seeing her again as he had seen
her that night in Teevan's grasp, striving with Teevan, weakly, but with
the killing light in her eyes. The vision convinced him. The other time
had been the time of dream. He had not been awake until now.

Again he slept and again he passed a day of waiting. That night there
were no lights in the house, but also no returning master, though he
waited until the night was far on. Yet he went to sleep in all patience,
knowing he had only to wait.

On the fourth night there were lights again, but about ten o'clock he
saw Teevan's two servants leave. He walked on, to avoid recognition by
them. When he returned a man was leaving the house. He thought this
might be Teevan, but when the figure had descended the steps and passed
under the street lamp he saw it to be Teevan's son. Still he waited. He
must be sure.

After half an hour the lights in the lower part of the house went out,
save one that shone dimly through the fanlight over the door. A moment
later two windows on the floor above leaped ruddily into view and he saw
a shadow pass across them. This was Teevan's room, and Teevan was
doubtless there, alone at last.

He did not cross the street directly, but walked east to the end of the
block and came back on the other side. As he passed the Bartell house he
opened and closed his hands tensely, recalling Ben's suggestion about a
weapon. His bare hands were sufficing weapons.

He went up the steps and softly turned his key in the lock. The door
yielded noiselessly to his push and he was in the hall. Unconsciously he
took off his hat and was about to leave it, but then he smiled and
replaced it firmly on his head. He stood listening a moment. There was
no sound. Then, very slowly, taking each step with caution, he mounted
the thickly carpeted stairs.

So intent was he on his purpose that he felt no anxiety, no excitement.
As he halted at the head of the stairs to listen again, he thrilled
only with the need for perfect silence, a thin