ucky to find me that night, dear lad," the man went on. "I
was in a mind to split on you."

"You have no cause to regret my finding you, Jackson," said the doctor.
"I suppose you still call yourself by that name?"

"Yes, Jackson," said the other promptly. "Jack--son, son of Jack. Fine
name, eh--good enough for me and good enough for anybody else. Yes, you
found me and done me well. I wish you hadn't. How I wish you hadn't."

"Ungrateful fool!" said van Heerden. "I probably saved your life--hid
you in Eastbourne, took you to London, whilst the police were searching
for you."

"For me!" snarled the other. "A low trick, by the Everlasting
Virtues----!"

"Don't be an idiot--whose word would they have taken, yours or mine? Now
let's talk--on Thursday next you sail for Quebec...."

He detailed his instructions at length and the man called Jackson,
mellowed by repeated visits to the decanter, listened and even approved.

On the other side of the hallway, behind the closed door, Oliva
Cresswell, her dining-table covered with papers and books, was working
hard.

She was particularly anxious to show Mr. Beale a sample of her work in
the morning and was making a fair copy of what she had described to him
that afternoon as her "hotel list."

"They are such queer names," she said; "there is one called Scobbs of
Red Horse Valley--Scobbs!"

He had laughed.

"Strangely enough, I know Mr. Scobbs, who is quite a personage in that
part of the world. He owns a chain of hotels in Western Canada. You
mustn't leave him out."

Even had she wished to, or even had the name been overlooked once, she
could not have escaped it. For Jonas Scobbs was the proprietor of
Scobbs' Hotel in Falling Star City; of the Bellevue in Snakefence, of
the Palace Hotel in Portage.

After awhile it began to lose its novelty and she accepted the discovery
of unsuspected properties of Mr. Scobbs as inevitable.

She filled in the last ruled sheet and blotted it, gathered the sheets
together and fastened them with a clip.

She yawned as she rose and realized that her previous night's sleep had
been fitful.

She wondered as she began to undress if she would dream of Scobbs
or--no, she didn't want to dream of big-headed men with white faces, and
the thought awoke a doubt in her mind. Had she bolted the door of the
flat? She went along the passage in her stockinged feet, shot the bolts
smoothly and was aware of voices outside. They came to her clearly