rdered their grog, until he should return.

"Let's drink the good liquor he has paid for," said Rooney, with a wink,
"then we will let some more of the boys into the secret, and start out
in a gang and gather him up. Heath will kick him out sure enough, and if
we follow too close we might be discovered. Not by Burrill but by the
doctor. We will bring Burrill back here and two more drinks will make
him tell the whole story."

They did not agree with Rooney on all points of his argument; but they
had played a coarse, practical joke upon a man who sometimes "took on
airs" and vaunted himself as their patron; he who had been only their
equal once. It was only a joke, a witless, mirthless, coarse saloon
joke, and they drank on and grew hilarious, never dreaming that they had
sent one man to his grave, and another to the foot of the scaffold.

As John Burrill came forth from the saloon and turned his face toward
Doctor Heath's cottage, a lithe form emerged from amidst the darkness
and paused for a moment just outside the saloon door, seeming to
hesitate.

"He's goin' home, in course," muttered the man. "I'll jest light out and
come in ahead." And he plunged down a by street and went swiftly over
the bridge; but not alone.

A second dark form had been lurking in the vicinity of "Old Forty's,"
the form of a boy, who glided through the dark, at the heels of the
other, like a spirit.

"He is going wrong," thought this shadow, discontentedly. "Somehow I'm
sure of it; I'm shadowing the wrong party; but--I'm obeying
instructions." And pursued and pursuer crossed the bridge and turned
their steps toward Mapleton.

Meantime, John Burrill, reeling, singing snatches of low songs, and
stopping sometimes to rest and assure himself that all the landmarks are
there, pursues his way toward Doctor Heath's cottage.

It is situated on the outskirts of the town; the way is long, the night
dark, the wind boisterous, and the way lonely. It is after ten o'clock.

Later--nearly two hours later, Frank Lamotte, driven by his demon of
unrest, is pacing his room, feverish and fierce, when his door opens
softly, a white, haggard face looks in, a hoarse voice articulates,
"Frank, for God's sake, for your own sake, come with me quick!"

Frank Lamotte turns swiftly, angrily. He is about to speak, when
something catches his eye, fixes it in horror, and causes him to gasp
out, pointing with one shaking finger.

"Ah-h-h! _what_ is that?"

"It is