" I commanded. "Who did this?"

The eyes, now filled with weariness, looked up and the lips moved
feebly.

"My own people," he whispered.

In my indignation I could have shaken the truth from him. I bent closer.

"Then, by God," I whispered back, "you'll tell me who they are!"

The eyes flashed sullenly.

"That's my secret," said Schnitzel.

The eyes set and the lips closed.

A man at my side leaned over him, and drew the sheet across his face.

THE MESSENGERS

When Ainsley first moved to Lone Lake Farm all of his friends asked him
the same question. They wanted to know, if the farmer who sold it to him
had abandoned it as worthless, how one of the idle rich, who could not
distinguish a plough from a harrow, hoped to make it pay? His answer was
that he had not purchased the farm as a means of getting richer by
honest toil, but as a retreat from the world and as a test of true
friendship. He argued that the people he knew accepted his hospitality
at Sherry's because, in any event, they themselves would be dining
within a taxicab fare of the same place. But if to see him they
travelled all the way to Lone Lake Farm, he might feel assured that they
were friends indeed.

Lone Lake Farm was spread over many acres of rocky ravine and forest, at
a point where Connecticut approaches New York, and between it and the
nearest railroad station stretched six miles of an execrable wood road.
In this wilderness, directly upon the lonely lake, and at a spot
equally distant from each of his boundary lines, Ainsley built himself a
red brick house. Here, in solitude, he exiled himself; ostensibly to
become a gentleman farmer; in reality to wait until Polly Kirkland had
made up her mind to marry him.

Lone Lake, which gave the farm its name, was a pond hardly larger than a
city block. It was fed by hidden springs, and fringed about with reeds
and cat-tails, stunted willows and shivering birch. From its surface
jutted points of the same rock that had made farming unremunerative, and
to these miniature promontories and islands Ainsley, in keeping with a
fancied resemblance, gave such names as the Needles, St. Helena, the
Isle of Pines. From the edge of the pond that was farther from the house
rose a high hill, heavily wooded. At its base, oak and chestnut trees
spread their branches over the water, and when the air was still were so
clearly reflected in the pond that the leaves seemed to float upon the
surface. To the