the bar and into a narrow trail Philip could hear the pack
falling out to the side and behind them. Also he knew that Jean was
ahead of them now. He did not speak, nor did Josephine offer to break
the silence again. Still letting her hand rest in his she followed
close behind the half-breed. Her hand was so cold that Philip
involuntarily held it tighter in his own, as if to give it warmth. He
could feel her shivering, and yet something told him that what he
sensed in the darkness was not caused by chill alone. Several times her
fingers closed shudderingly about his.

They had not walked more than a couple of hundred yards when a turn
brought them out of the forest trail, and the blackness ahead was
broken by a solitary light, a dimly lighted window in a pit of gloom.

"Marja is not expecting us to-night," apologized the girl nervously.
"That is Adare House."

The loneliness of the spot, its apparent emptiness of life, the silence
save for the snuffling and whining of the unseen beasts about them,
stirred Philip with a curious sensation of awe. He had at least
expected light and life at Adare House. Here were only the mystery of
darkness and a deathlike quiet. Even the one light seemed turned low.
As they advanced toward it a great shadow grew out of the gloom; and
then, all at once, it seemed as if a curtain of the forest had been
drawn aside, and away beyond the looming shadow Philip saw the glow of
a camp-fire. From that distant fire there came the challenging howl of
a dog, and instantly it was taken up by a score of fierce tongues about
them. As Josephine's voice rose to quell the disturbance the light in
the window grew suddenly brighter, and then a door opened and in it
stood the figures of a man and woman. The man was standing behind the
woman, looking over her shoulder, and for one moment Philip caught the
flash of the lamp-glow on the barrel of a rifle.

Josephine paused.

"You will forgive me if I ask you to let me go on alone, and you follow
with Jean?" she whispered. "I will try and see you again to-night, when
I have dressed myself, and I am in better condition to show you
hospitality."

Jean was so close that he overheard her. "We will follow," he said
softly. "Go ahead, ma cheri."

His voice was filled with an infinite gentleness, almost of pity; and
as Josephine drew her hand from Philip's and went on ahead of them he
dropped back close to the other's side.

"Something will happen soon which m