to say nothing of the prompt
flight of several birds, led the detective unerringly to the trunk of
a lofty chestnut which he had already fixed on as the cover whence the
shot that killed Mortimer Fenley was fired. He was convinced also that
the rifle was yet hidden there, and his thin lips parted in a smile
now that his theory was about to be justified.

He could follow the panting efforts of the climber quite easily. He
knew when the weapon was unlashed from the limb to which it was bound,
and when the descent was begun. He could measure almost the exact
distance of his prey from the ground, and was awaiting the final drop
before flashing the torch on his prisoner, when something rapped him
smartly on the forehead. It was a rope, doubled and twisted, and
subsequent investigation showed that it must have been thrown in a
coil over the lowermost branch in order to facilitate the only
difficult part of the climb offered by ten feet of straight bole.

That trivial incident changed the whole course of events. Taken by
surprise, since he did not know what had struck him, Furneaux pressed
the governor of the torch a second too soon, and his eyes, raised
instantaneously, met those of Hilton Fenley, who was on the point of
letting go the branch and swinging himself down.

During a thrilling moment they gazed at each other, the detective cool
and seemingly unconcerned, the self-avowed murderer livid with mortal
fear. Then Furneaux caught the rope and held it.

"I thought you'd go climbing tonight, Fenley," he said. "Let me assist
you. Tricky things, ropes. You're at the wrong end of this one."

Even Homer nods, but Furneaux had erred three times in as many
seconds. He had switched on the light prematurely, and his ready
banter had warned the parricide that a well-built scheme was crumbling
to irretrievable ruin. Moreover, he had underrated the nervous forces
of the man thus trapped and outwitted. Fenley knew that when his feet
touched the earth he would begin a ghastly pilgrimage to the scaffold.
Two yellow orbs of light were already springing up the slight incline
from the rock, betokening the presence of captors in overwhelming
number. What was to be done? Nothing, in reason, yet Furneaux had
likened him to a snake, and he displayed now the primal instinct of
the snake to fight when cornered. Thrusting the heavy gun he was
carrying straight downward, he delivered a vicious and unerring blow.

The stock caught the detect