lunder. He continued firing with a savage fury that
boded ill for his late mate.

The thing itself happened suddenly. One moment he was peering out into
the darkness in an effort to locate his enemy; the next strong sinewy
hands were around his throat choking the life out of him. With that
clarity of vision that comes to a man perhaps once in a lifetime, he
saw, even in the all-pervading darkness, the shadowy face that was
pressed close to his own. The eyes that looked into his were dim pools
of evil light, faintly phosphorescent like those of a cat, and the face
that framed them was contorted into a malignant leer of triumph. That
much he saw before the darkness crushed him out of existence and all
things earthly faded from his vision.

Bradby felt the man's body go limp in his arms, and he quickly thrust
into its holster the revolver with which he had dealt the final blow.
There was a steamy smell of blood on the thick, damp air, and when Mr.
Bradby drew away his right hand he found it warm and wet.

"Christ!" he said in a tone of fear, "I've killed him!" That was
precisely what he had intended to do from the very first, but now his
plan had apparently fructified, he felt a vague horror at the result of
his handiwork. He opened Cumshaw's shirt and put his hand over the man's
heart. He could not detect even the faintest flutter.

Then swiftly, with many glances about him as he moved, he carried the
body to the undergrowth and very gently laid it on the ground. But he
failed to notice that as he bent down a flat piece of wood had slipped
from the pocket of his shirt and had fallen soundlessly into the soft
green grass at the side of Abel Cumshaw's body.

Five minutes later silence reigned. Only the heavy scent of the wattle
was mingled with another odor--the warm, sickly smell of freshly-shed
blood.

CHAPTER V.

EXPIATION.

Unaccountably enough Bradby went no further than the dying embers of the
fire. His first act was to build a big blaze, for he was already
becoming afraid. He could not define even to himself just what this fear
was; it was not so much horror at what he had done as a feeling that his
sins would yet find him out. Some strange attraction kept him close to
the scene of the tragedy, and all night he sat by the fire with his head
in his hands and his eyes staring at the ever-widening ring of white
ashes. Towards morning he fell into a doze, but scarcely had the first
rays of the sun penet