ers of the World--and the last's the safest job."

Koppy went to the window and looked through into the darkening shadows.
A man slid through the undergrowth out there and disappeared. Several
more drifted in and out of sight. As he looked, a half hundred passed
furtively, slinking along, silent, moving back into the bush and the
shadows, a procession of guilty mutes, glancing neither to right nor
left, held to their course by the promise of the coming gathering.

"Come," ordered Koppy. "We go."

He lit the lamp and opened the door, and they climbed through the way
they had entered. Outside they became as part of their fellow
conspirators, crouching, silent, grim.

Over the bank came the sound of the orchestra, blaring with forced lung
the message of the ordinary camp life. Half a dozen small groups idled
on the ground before the cook-houses. A few walked lazily about the
stables, and two white-aproned cooks passed from cook-house to
cook-house on the night preparations for the morning meal. Outwardly
everything was above suspicion.

Tressa thought so, as she stood beside her father in the doorway and
looked out over the scene, while behind them Conrad read aloud the
newest book to reach them. But her father was not at ease.

"Morani's giving us more than our money's worth to-night," he muttered,
during a pause in the reading. "It should be made a law that every
dirty bohunk had to join an orchestra, so a fellow could keep an ear on
'em when he can't see 'em. They're not likely to do much harm with a
tin whistle between their lips."

"It's a beastly quiet night," he complained, when Conrad paused to
light the lamp.

"I thought it was noisier down there than usual," said Tressa.

Conrad came behind them and stood without a word, when the eyes of the
two men met significantly.

"Guess I'll be turning in," the younger man yawned. "It's been a bit
of a hard day."

He turned back to place the book on the shelf, carefully marking the
page. Tressa was there beside him, and her father was standing on the
step with his back to them; but the young lover did not seem to see
her. She walked with him to the top of the path leading down to his
shack, but he only muttered an absent-minded good-night and left her,
hastening down the path, knowing nothing of the hot tears behind.

He did not stop at his own door but passed on to the camp, all the time
listening intently. The camp clamour was there, but it was