s, of
mysticism and conjuration. Somehow, in the late evenings, he assumed the
unapproachable mantle of a dreamer and sat silently before the fire, his
mind ever off in unknown places.

In that little lodge there was no electricity, and the glow of the oil
lamps played curious tricks with the human expression which frequently
resulted in something unhuman. It may have been the dusk of night, the
flickering of the lamps, but Arthur Duryea had certainly noticed how his
father's eyes had sunken further into his head, and how his cheeks were
tighter, and the outline of his teeth pressed into the skin about his
lips.

* * * * *

It was nearing sundown on the second day of their stay at Timber Lake.
Six miles away the dirt road wound on toward Houtlon, near the Canadian
border. So it was lonely there, on a solitary little lake hemmed in
closely with dark evergreens and a sky which drooped low over
dusty-summited mountains.

Within the lodge was a homy fireplace, and a glossy elk's-head which
peered out above the mantel. There were guns and fishing-tackle on the
walls, shelves of reliable American fiction--Mark Twain, Melville,
Stockton, and a well-worn edition of Bret Harte.

A fully supplied kitchen and a wood stove furnished them with hearty
meals which were welcome after a whole day's tramp in the woods. On that
evening Henry Duryea prepared a select French stew out of every
available vegetable, and a can of soup. They ate well, then stretched
out before the fire for a smoke. They were outlining a trip to the
Orient together, when the back door blew open with a terrific bang, and
a wind swept into the lodge with a coldness which chilled them both.

"A storm," Henry Duryea said, rising to his feet. "Sometimes they have
them up here, and they're pretty bad. The roof might leak over your
bedroom. Perhaps you'd like to sleep down here with me." His fingers
strayed playfully over his son's head as he went out into the kitchen to
bar the swinging door.

Arthur's room was upstairs, next to a spare room filled with extra
furniture. He'd chosen it because he liked the altitude, and because the
only other bedroom was occupied....

He went upstairs swiftly and silently. His roof didn't leak; it was
absurd even to think it might. It had been his father again, suggesting
that they sleep together. He had done it before, in a jesting,
whispering way--as if to challenge them both if they _dared_ to