the minister, John."

Her warm lips were near, and he kissed them.

"Come, Joanne. We will go down."

Hand in hand they went down the stair; and when the minister saw Joanne,
covered in the tangle and glory of her hair; and when he saw John Aldous,
with half-naked arms and blackened face; and when, with these things, he
saw the wonderful joy shining in their eyes, he stood like one struck dumb
at sight of a miracle descending out of the skies. For never had Joanne
looked more beautiful than in this hour, and never had man looked more like
entering into paradise than John Aldous.

Short and to the point was the little mountain minister's service, and when
he had done he shook hands with them, and again he stared at them as they
went back up the stair, still hand in hand. At her door they stopped. There
were no words to speak now, as her heart lay against his heart, and her
lips against his lips. And then, after those moments, she drew a little
back, and there came suddenly that sweet, quivering, joyous play of her
lips as she said:

"And now, my husband, may I dress my hair?"

"My hair," he corrected, and let her go from his arms.

Her door closed behind her. A little dizzily he turned to his room. His
hand was on the knob when he heard her speak his name. She had reopened her
door, and stood with something in her hand, which she was holding toward
him. He went back, and she gave him a photograph.

"John, you will destroy this," she whispered. "It is his
photograph--Mortimer FitzHugh's. I brought it to show to people, that it
might help me in my search. Please--destroy it!"

He returned to his room and placed the photograph on his table. It was
wrapped in thin paper, and suddenly there came upon him a most compelling
desire to see what Mortimer FitzHugh had looked like in life. Joanne would
not care. Perhaps it would be best for him to know.

He tore off the paper. And as he looked at the picture the hot blood in his
veins ran cold. He stared--stared as if some wild and maddening joke was
being played upon his faculties. A cry rose to his lips and broke in a
gasping breath, and about him the floor, the world itself, seemed slipping
away from under his feet.

For the picture he held in his hand was the picture of Culver Rann!

CHAPTER XXI

For a minute, perhaps longer, John Aldous stood staring at the photograph
which he held in his hand. It was the picture of Culver Rann--not once did
he question