d and looked
about him. Instinctively his eyes turned first to the west. In that
direction half of the town lay under him, and beyond its edge swept the
timbered slopes, the river, and the green pathways of the plains. His
heart beat a little faster as he looked. Half a mile away was a tiny,
parklike patch of timber, and sheltered there, with the river running
under it, was the old home. The building was hidden, but through a
break in the trees he could see the top of the old red brick chimney
glowing in the sun, as if beckoning a welcome to him over the tree
tops. He forgot Shan Tung; he forgot McDowell; he forgot that he was
John Keith, the murderer, in the overwhelming sea of loneliness that
swept over him. He looked out into the world that had once been his,
and all that he saw was that red brick chimney glowing in the sun, and
the chimney changed until at last it seemed to him like a tombstone
rising over the graves of the dead. He turned to the door of the
bungalow with a thickening in his throat and his eyes filmed by a mist
through which for a few moments it was difficult for him to see.

The bungalow was darkened by drawn curtains when he entered. One after
another he let them up, and the sun poured in. Brady had left his place
in order, and Keith felt about him an atmosphere of cheer that was a
mighty urge to his flagging spirits. Brady was a home man without a
wife. The Company's agent had called his place "The Shack" because it
was built entirely of logs, and a woman could not have made it more
comfortable. Keith stood in the big living-room. At one end was a
strong fireplace in which kindlings and birch were already laid,
waiting the touch of a match. Brady's reading table and his easy chair
were drawn up close; his lounging moccasins were on a footstool; pipes,
tobacco, books and magazines littered the table; and out of this
cheering disorder rose triumphantly the amber shoulder of a half-filled
bottle of Old Rye.

Keith found himself chuckling. His grin met the lifeless stare of a
pair of glass eyes in the huge head of an old bull moose over the
mantel, and after that his gaze rambled over the walls ornamented with
mounted heads, pictures, snowshoes, gun-racks and the things which went
to make up the comradeship and business of Brady's picturesque life.
Keith could look through into the little dining-room, and beyond that
was the kitchen. He made an inventory of both and found that McDowell
was right. T