ou, too, are a link in the chain. Get up!"

Sullenly Kronberg obeyed.

"If you are a good shot," commented Carl coolly, "the bullet you sent
from this doorway would have gone through my head. That was your
intention?"

Kronberg made no pretense of reply.

"You've been here nine weeks," sympathized Carl, "and were cautious
enough to wait until Wherry departed. What a pity you were so delayed!
Caution, my dear Kronberg, if I may fall into epigram, is frequently
and paradoxically the mother of disaster. As for instance your own
case. I imagine you're a blunderer anyway," he added impudently; "your
fingers are too thick. If you hadn't been so anxious to learn when
Wherry was likely to go," guessed Carl suddenly, "you wouldn't have
listened and creaked at the keyhole last night. And more than likely
you'd have gotten that creak over on me to-night."

Kronberg's shifting glance roved desperately to the doorway.

"Try it," invited Carl pleasantly. "Do. And I'll help you over the
threshold with a little lead. Do you know the way to the attic door in
the west wing?"

Kronberg, gulping with fear, said he did not. He was shaking violently.

"Get the little lamp on the mantel there," commanded Carl curtly, "and
light it. Bring it here. Now you will kindly precede me to the door I
spoke of. I'll direct you. If you bolt or cry out, I'll send a bullet
through your head. So that you may not be tempted to waste your blood
and brains, if you have any, and my patience, pray recall that the
Carmodys are snugly asleep by now in the east wing and the house is
large. They couldn't hear you."

It was the older portion of the house and one which by reason of its
draughts was rarely used in winter, to which Carl drove his shaking
prisoner. In summer it was cool and pleasant. In winter, however, it
was cut off from heat and habitation by lock and key.

At Carl's curt direction Kronberg turned the key in the door and passed
through the icy file of rooms beyond to the second floor, thence to a
dusty attic where the sweep of the wind and snow seemed very close, and
on to an ancient cluster of storerooms. Years back when the old
farmhouse had been an inn, shivering servants had made these chill and
dusty rooms more habitable. Now with the deserted wing below and the
wind-feet of the Bacchante on the roof above, they were inexpressibly
lonely and dreary.

Kronberg bit his lip and shuddered. His fear of the grim young