er glass, Stryker. So." He poured the whisky
with an assumption of ease and they drank.

"You see, Nichols," he went on as he set his empty glass down, "I know
what I'm about. There _is_ somebody trying to get at me. It's no
dream--no hallucination. You know that too, now. I saw him--I would have
shot him through the window--if it hadn't been for Peggy--and the
others--but I--I didn't dare--for reasons. She mustn't know----" And
then eagerly, "She doesn't suspect anything yet, does she, Nichols?"

Peter gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the sounds which
still came from below.

"No. They're having a good time."

"That's all right. To-morrow they'll be leaving for New York, I hope.
And then we'll meet this issue squarely. You say the man has gone. Why
do you think so?"

"Isn't it reasonable to think so? His visit was merely a reconnoissance.
I think he had probably been lying out in the underbrush all day,
getting the lay of the land, watching what we were doing--seeing where
the men were placed. But he must know now that he'll have to try
something else--that he hasn't a chance of getting to you past these
guards, if you don't want him to."

"But he nearly succeeded to-night," mumbled McGuire dubiously.

Peter was silent a moment.

"I'm not supposed to question and I won't. But it seems to me, Mr.
McGuire, that if this visitor's plan were to murder you, to get rid of
you, he would have shot you down to-night, through the window. From his
failure to do so, there is one definite conclusion to draw--and that is
that he wants to see you--to talk with you----"

McGuire fairly threw himself from his chair as he roared,

"I can't see him. I won't. I won't see anybody. I've got the law on my
side. A man's house is his castle. A fellow prowls around here in the
dark. He's been seen--if he's shot it's his own lookout. And he _will_
be shot before he reaches me. You hear me? Your men must shoot--shoot to
kill. If they fail I'll----"

He shrugged as if at the futility of his own words, which came stumbling
forth, born half of fear, half of braggadocio.

Peter regarded him soberly. It was difficult to conceive of this man,
who talked like a madman and a spoiled child, as the silent, stubborn,
friendless millionaire, as the power in finance that Sheldon, Senior,
had described him to be. The love of making money had succumbed to a
more primitive passion which for the time being had mastered him. From
what ha