ly, he packed his guns,
wired for a guide, and boarded a train for the South that very night. In
his pocket he carried a vial containing twenty-five grains of powdered
cocaine.

The club launch met him at Boonville, the nearest station, and during
the twenty-mile trip down the Sound he learned all he wished to know.
The shooting was well-nigh over; there were no other members at the
club-house; he would have the place all to himself.

For several days he hunted diligently, taking pains to write numerous
letters to his friends, and among others to Muriel. It was his first
letter since their parting, and the strain of holding his pen within
formal bounds was almost too much for him. It was a pity she would never
understand his motives in doing this thing, he reflected. It was a pity
he had never understood his own feelings before it was too late.
Manlike, he had thrown away the only precious thing of his life while
searching for counterfeit joys, and, man-like, he regretted his folly
now that he had lost her.

That evening he informed his guide that he intended to hunt by himself
on the following morning, and in answer to the old negro's warning
assured him that he knew the channels well and was amply able to handle
a canoe.

He rose early, forced himself to eat a substantial breakfast, for the
sake of appearances, then set out in his Peterboro. The morning was
chilly and he had purposely donned a heavy sweater, shell vest, leather
coat, and hip-boots. He paddled down the river for a mile or more, then
let his craft drift with the current. Far away on one horizon was a
dark, low-lying fringe of pines marking the mainland; two miles to
seaward sounded the slow rumble of the restless Atlantic; on every hand
were acres upon acres, miles upon miles of waving marsh-grass interlaced
with creeks and channels; nowhere was there a sign of human life.

He took the little bottle from his pocket, reached over the side and
filled it with water. He replaced the cork and shook the vial until the
white powder it contained was thoroughly dissolved. There were
twenty-five grains of it, eight fatal doses, and he had seen that it was
fresh. This time there could be no question of failure, he reasoned. Nor
was there much chance of discovery, for after that drug had remained in
his body for a few hours it would be exceedingly difficult of
identification, even at the hands of an expert toxicologist. But there
were no experts in this count