d at him. The dim rays of
the little wick in the kerosene bottle gave scarcely enough light to
show the ordinary eye where the lamp itself was. But when their
glances met, it was enough to show Roderick that it was no longer a
child with whom he was dealing. For a second neither spoke, then
Malcolm, putting his hand on the man's shoulder, gripped it perhaps
more roughly than he intended. "The traps," he repeated.

Roderick winced. He saw that his secret was out. He was at the
Scotchman's mercy, and he knew it. "They're stowed in t' hollow of t'
old trunk, fifty yards back of t' tilt, damn you," he snarled, and
tried to roll over, groaning bitterly with pain of both body and soul.

The pity of it appealed straight to Malcolm's generous heart, and his
grip relaxed instantly. He strove to make the other more comfortable,
moving him gently in his great arms.

"Forget it, Mr. Norman," he said. "No one shall ever know unless you
tell 'em. I'll give you my word for that." The sick man said nothing.
His deep breathing, painfully drawn, was, however, enough in that
dead silence to warn Malcolm of the struggle going on so close to
him--a struggle so much more momentous than one of tooth and claw. He
slipped his hand into that of the other and held it gently.

"You're very hot, sir," he remarked, just for something to say. "Shall
I get you some cold water?"

But still there was no answer. Evidently the man's mind was engrossed
with other thoughts. A long pause followed.

"Mr. Norman, for God's sake, forget it. No one's been hurt but
yourself. If there's been any wrong, it's all forgiven and forgotten
long ago. Let's just begin again. Remember 't is Christmas Eve night."

Still there was no reply, but McCrea's intuition saved him from the
mistake of saying more. The stillness became uncanny. Then an almost
imperceptible pressure of the sick man's hand sent a thrill vibrating
through the Scotchman's soul. Yes, and he had himself returned the
pressure before he knew it. A shiver passed over the sick man's frame
and the silence was broken by a sob.

With an innate sense of fellow-feeling, Malcolm laid down the other's
hand, rose, and went out without a word. The night was perfect with
the glorious light of the waning moon. His mind was at once made up.
He would be home by daylight and back again with his dogs by midday,
with stimulants and blankets, and could have Roderick in Nancy's
skilled hands before night.

Noiselessly