he watched it. Sometimes, when it swam very near, he made a sudden
motion with his far arm; and crack! -- with a pistol-shot report down it
dived. But always it re-appeared.

What had a creature like that to do with him? Sard watched it with
failing interest, thinking of other things -- of Quintana and the
chances that the dogs had caught him, -- of Sanchez, the Ghoul, hoping
that dire misfortune might overtake him, too; -- of the dead man
sprawling under the cedar-tree, all sopping crimson---- Faugh!

Shivering, Sard filled his mouth with apple-pie and cheese and pulled
the cork from another bottle of home-brewed beer.

* * * * *

III

About that time, a mile and a half to the southward, James Darragh came
out on the rocky and rushing outlet to Star Pond.

Over his shoulder was a rifle, and all around him ran dogs, -- big,
powerful dogs, built like foxhounds but with the rough, wiry coats of
Airedales, even rougher of ear and features.

The dogs, -- half a dozen or so in number, -- seemed very tired. All
ran down eagerly to the water and drank and slobbered and panted,
lolling their tongues, and slaking their thirst again and again along
the swirling edge of a deep trout pool.

Darragh's rifle lay in the hollow of his left arm; his khaki waistcoat
was set with loops full of cartridges. From his left wrist hung a
raw-hide whip.

Now he lad aside his rifle and whip, took from the pocket of his
shooting coat three or four leather dog-leashes, went down among the
dogs and coupled them up.

They followed him back to the bank above. Here he sat down on a rock
and inspected his watch.

He had been seated there for ten minutes, possibly, with his tired dogs
lying around him, when just above him he saw a State Trooper emerge from
the woods on foot, carrying a rifle over one shoulder.

"Jack!" he called in a guarded voice.

Trooper Stormont turned, caught sight of Darragh, made a signal of
recognition, and came toward him.

Darragh said: "Your mate, Trooper Lannis, is down stream. I've two of
my own game wardens at the cross-roads, two more on the Ghost Lake Road,
and two foresters and an inspector out toward Owl Marsh."

Stormont nodded, looked down at the dogs.

"This isn't the State Forest," said Darragh, smiling. Then his face
grew grave: "How is Eve?" he asked.

"She's feeling better," replied Stormont. "I telephoned to Ghost Lake
Inn for the hotel physician. ... I was afraid of pneumonia, Ji