m the violent blast of the wind, the
boundless, stirred space. They made their way about the corner of the
house, leaving behind the pale, glimmering rectangle of the lighted
window. In the thicket Woolfolk was forced to proceed more slowly.
Millie stumbled weakly over the rough way, apparently at the point of
slipping to the ground. He felt a supreme relief when the cool sweep
of the sea opened before him and Halvard emerged from the gloom.

He halted for a moment, with his arm about Millie's shoulders, facing
his man. Even in the dark he was conscious of Poul Halvard's stalwart
being, of his rocklike integrity.

"I was delayed," he said finally, amazed at the inadequacy of his
words to express the pressure of the past hours. Had they been two or
four? He had been totally unconscious of the passage of actual time.
In the dark house behind the orange grove he had lived through
tormented ages, descended into depths beyond the measured standard of
Greenwich. Halvard said:

"Yes, sir."

The sound of a blundering progress rose from the path behind them, the
breaking of branches and the slipping of a heavy tread on the
water-soaked ground. John Woolfolk, with an oath, realized that it was
Nicholas, still animated by his fixed, murderous idea. Millie Stope
recognized the sound, too, for she trembled violently on his arm. He
knew that she could support no more violence, and he turned to the
dim, square-set figure before him.

"Halvard, it's that fellow Nicholas. He's insane--has a knife. Will
you stop him while I get Miss Stope into the tender? She's pretty well
through." He laid his hand on the other's shoulder as he started
immediately forward. "I shall have to go on, Halvard, if anything
unfortunate occurs," he said in a different voice.

The sailor made no reply; but as Woolfolk urged Millie out over the
wharf he saw Halvard throw himself upon a dark bulk that broke from
the wood.

The tender was made fast fore and aft; and, getting down into the
uneasy boat, Woolfolk reached up and lifted Millie bodily to his side.
She dropped in a still, white heap on the bottom. He unfastened the
painter and stood holding the tender close to the wharf, with his head
above its platform, straining his gaze in the direction of the obscure
struggle on land.

He could see nothing, and heard only an occasional trampling of the
underbrush. It was difficult to remain detached, give no assistance,
while Halvard encountered Iscah Nicho