ing
that might happen. And McGuire's insistence upon the orders that the
guards should shoot to kill also suggested, rather unpleasantly, the
thought that McGuire knew who the visitor was and earnestly desired his
death.

But Mrs. Bergen could have no such wish, for, unlike McGuire, she had
shown a reticence in her fears, as though her silence had been intended
to protect rather than to accuse. Beth Cameron, too, was in some way
unconsciously involved in the adventure. But how? He drank his coffee
and ate his roll, a prey to a very lively curiosity. Beth interested
him. And if Aunt Tillie Bergen, her only near relative, showed signs of
inquietude on the girl's account, the mysterious visitor surely had it
in his power to make her unhappy. As he washed up the dishes and made
his bed, Peter decided that he would find Beth to-night when she came
back from work and ask her some questions about her Aunt Tillie.

Beth Cameron saved him that trouble. He was sitting at the piano,
awaiting a telephone call to Black Rock House, where he was to have a
conference with his employer on the forestry situation. He was so deeply
absorbed in his music that he was unaware of the figure that had stolen
through the underbrush and was now hidden just outside the door. It was
Beth. She stood with the fingers of one hand lightly touching the edge
of the door-jamb, the other hand at her breast, while she listened,
poised lightly as though for flight. But a playful breeze twitched at
the hem of her skirt, flicking it out into the patch of sunlight by the
doorsill, and Peter caught the glint of white from the tail of his eye.

The music ceased suddenly and before Beth could flee into the bushes
Peter had caught her by the hand.

Now that she was discovered she made no effort to escape him.

"I--I was listening," she gasped.

"Why, Beth," he exclaimed, voicing the name in his thoughts. "How long
have you been here?"

"I--I don't know. Not long."

"I'm so glad."

She was coloring very prettily.

"You--you told me you--you'd play for me sometime," she said demurely.

"Of course. Won't you come in? It's rather a mess here, but----"

He led her in, glancing at her gingham dress, a little puzzled.

"I thought you'd be farmeretting," he said.

But she shook her head.

"I quit--yesterday."

He didn't ask the reason. He was really enjoying the sight of her. Few
women are comely in the morning hours, which have a merciless way of
exagg