ow. He is an image, a
stone, and would not hear though the roof fell in.

Mr. Byrd himself forgot the storm, and only queried what his duty was
in this strange and surprising emergency.

But before he could come to any definite conclusion, he was subjected to
a new sensation. A stir that was not the result of the wind or the rain
had taken place in the forest before him. A something--he could not tell
what--was advancing upon him from the path he had himself travelled so
short a time before, and its step, if step it were, shook him with a
vague apprehension that made him dread to lift his eyes. But he
conquered the unmanly instinct, and merely taking the precaution to step
somewhat further back from view, looked in the direction of his fears,
and saw a tall, firmly-built woman, whose grandly poised head, held
high, in defiance of the gale, the lightning, and the rain, proclaimed
her to be none other than Imogene Dare.

It was a juxtaposition of mental, moral, and physical forces that almost
took Mr. Byrd's breath away. He had no doubt whom she had come to see,
or to what sort of a tryst he was about to be made an unwilling witness.
But he could not have moved if the blast then surging through the trees
had uprooted the huge pine behind which he had involuntarily drawn at
the first impression he had received of her approach. He must watch that
white face of hers slowly evolve itself from the surrounding darkness,
and he must be present when the dreadful bolt swept down from heaven, if
only to see her eyes in the flare of its ghostly flame.

It came while she was crossing the glade. Fierce, blinding, more vivid
and searching than at any time before, it flashed down through the
cringing boughs, and, like a mantle of fire, enveloped her form,
throwing out its every outline, and making of the strong and beautiful
face an electric vision which Mr. Byrd was never able to forget.

A sudden swoop of wind followed, flinging her almost to the ground, but
Mr. Byrd knew from that moment that neither wind nor lightning, not even
the fear of death, would stop this woman if once she was determined upon
any course.

Dreading the next few moments inexpressibly, yet forcing himself, as a
detective, to remain at his post, though every instinct of his nature
rebelled, Mr. Byrd drew himself up against the side of the low hut and
listened. Her voice, rising between the mutterings of thunder and the
roar of the ceaseless gale, was plainl