een no man will ever know,
for of a sudden, interrupting, Hans Becher's round face appeared in
the doorway.

"Ichabod Maurice to see you," coughed the German, obscured in the
cloud of smoke which passed out like steam through the opening.

It cannot be said that Asa Arnold's face grew impassive; it was that
already. Certain it was, though, that behind the mask there occurred,
at that moment, a revolution. Born of it, the old mocking smile sprang
to his lips.

"The devil fights for his own," he soliloquized. "I really believe
I,"--again the smile,--"I was about to make a sacrifice."

"Sir?"

"Thank you, Hans."

The German's jaw dropped in inexpressible surprise.

"Sir?" he repeated.

"You made a decision for me, then. Thank you."

"I do not you understand."

"Tell Mr. Maurice I shall be pleased to see him."

The round face disappeared from the door.

"_Donnerwetter!_" commented the little landlord in the safe seclusion
of the stairway. Later, in relating the incident to Minna, he tapped
his forehead, suggestively.

Ichabod climbed the stair alone. "To your old room," Hans had said;
and Ichabod knew the place well. He knocked on the panel, a voice
answered: "Come," and he opened the door. Arnold had thrown away his
cigar and opened the window. The room was clearing rapidly.

Ichabod stepped inside and closed the door carefully behind him. A
few seconds he stood holding it, then swung it open quickly and
glanced down the hallway. Answering, there was a sudden, scuttling
sound, not unlike the escape of frightened rats, as Hans Becher
precipitately disappeared. The tall man came back and for the second
time slowly closed the door.

Asa Arnold had neither moved nor spoken since that first word,--"come";
and the self-invited visitor read the inaction correctly. No man, with
the knowledge Ichabod possessed, could have misunderstood the challenge
in that impassive face. No man, a year ago, would have accepted that
challenge more quickly. Now--But God only knew whether or no he
would forget,--now.

For a minute, which to an onlooker would have seemed interminable, the
two men faced each other. Up from the street came the ring of a heavy
hammer on a sweet-voiced anvil, as Jim Donovan, the blacksmith,
sharpened anew the breaking ploughs which were battling the prairie
sod for bread. In the street below, a group of farmers were swapping
yarns, an occasional chorus of guffaws interrupting to punctuate the
narra