med
with gratitude in his voice.

"I was once," he admitted; "but lately I've been getting humanized, and
anybody can slip anything over on me. Now you trot back to New York and
cable Willie Kaiser that I disapprove of his declaring war."

"You are a friend in need!" Thatcher grasped his hand cordially. "I'll
run up for a word with Marian, and then back into the vortex. Keep your
eye on the cable news, Cosden. Hell is breaking loose!"

As Thatcher rushed up-stairs Cosden relit his cigar which had gone out
during the excitement, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked
meditatively up and down the piazza. He was immensely pleased with
himself, and felt entitled to his self-approval.

"Even old Monty couldn't have done that better," he muttered. "Good old
Thatcher--I hope it pulls him through!"

"What's the matter with Harry?" Edith demanded in a stage whisper,
appearing from nowhere.

"He forgot his umbrella yesterday," Cosden lied, speciously, "and he's
afraid it's going to rain."

"Oh, you tantalizing brute!" she cried, stamping her foot indignantly.
"I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man in the world!"

* * * * *

XXXV

* * * * *

Huntington's mind worked hard as he settled back in the motor-car and
surveyed the situation. It was impossible for him to have been so
intimately associated with Hamlen all these weeks without assimilating
his friend's manner of thought and action accurately enough to follow
him in this climax of his tragedy. Of his determination he had no doubt;
that he had as yet put it into execution was another matter. Huntington
believed that Hamlen would wish to see him once more before he visited
upon himself the extreme penalty which his hypersensitive nature would
decree.

It was shortly after noon when the car drew up in front of Huntington's
home. Mrs. Thatcher, in her feverish efforts to assist, had suggested
that the fugitive might have gone across to Newport to take the boat
from there to New York; but Huntington figured it differently. Hamlen
disliked and distrusted New York, while Boston had become a second home
to him. His belongings, such as he had brought with him from Bermuda,
were still in the Beacon Street house, and Huntington was sure that
following the instincts of a homing pigeon he would return there by the
straightest path.

Still, the doubt lingered with sufficient persistency to