seems dead beat and his boots are just a mask of mud. His
coat's torn and splashed, as well--as if he'd pushed his way through
bushes and all, without ever stopping to see where he was going."

"Then he'll be wanting his dinner," observed Mrs. Judson practically.
"I'll dish it up--'tisn't what you might call actually spoiled as yet."

"He won't have any. 'Judson,' he says to me, 'bring me a whisky-and-soda
and some sandwiches. I don't want nothing else. And then you can lock up
and go to bed.'"

"Well, then, bless the man, look alive and get the whisky-and-soda and
a tray ready whiles I cut the sandwiches," exclaimed the excellent Mrs.
Judson promptly, giving her bemused spouse a push in the direction of
the pantry and herself bustling away to fetch a loaf of bread.

"Right you are. But I was so took aback at the master's appearance,
Maria, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I wonder if his
young lady's given him his congy?" he added reflectively.

Mrs. Judson did not stay to discuss the question, but set about
preparing the sandwiches, and a few minutes later Judson carried into
Trent's own particular snuggery an attractive-looking little tray and
placed it on a table at his master's elbow.

The man had not been far out in his reckoning when he opined that his
master had walked "twenty miles or thereabouts." When he had quitted
Haven Woods, Garth had started off, heedless of the direction he took,
and, since then, he had been tramping, almost blindly, up hill and down
dale, over hedges, through woods, along the shore, stumbling across the
rocks, anywhere, anywhere in the world to get away from the maddening,
devil-ridden thoughts which had pursued him since the brief meeting with
a woman whose hyacinth eyes recalled the immeasurable anguish of years
ago and threatened the joy which the future seemed to promise.

His face was haggard. Heavy lines had graved themselves about his mouth,
and beneath drawn brows his eyes glowed like sombre fires.

Judson paused irresolutely beside him.

"Shall I pour you out a whisky, sir?" he inquired.

Trent started. He had been oblivious of the man's entrance.

"No. I'll do it myself--presently. Lock up and go to bed," he answered
brusquely.

But Judson still hesitated. There was an expression of affectionate
solicitude on his usually wooden face.

"Better have one at once, sir," he said persuasively. "And I think
you'll find the chicken sandwiches very good, si