"Father!" Tilly gasped, but she said no more, for the wild stare of the
bloodshot eyes cowed her into silence. He swung open the gate and lunged
into the yard.

"Where is that--where is John Trott?" he asked, panting, saliva like
that of an idiot dripping from his shaking lip. "Where is he, I say?"

Tilly saw the negro staring curiously. She knew he was listening. Almost
deprived of her wits, yet she was thoughtful, and she said:

"Come in, father; come in?"

"Oh, he is inside, is he?"

"Come in," Tilly answered, evasively. "Let's not talk out here."

She led the way into the sitting-room and tremblingly placed a chair for
him, noting as she did so that his coarse shoes were untied, his hat
without a band, his cravat awry, his shirt unclean. He refused the
chair, and stood holding to the back of it with a besmudged hand. Then
her alert eyes took in the bulge of the right-hand pocket of his short
coat. A weighty article drew it sharply downward. She knew that it was a
revolver, and her blood ran cold in her veins.

"Where is John Trott?" Whaley demanded, raspingly, and he looked toward
the door leading into the dining-room. That room was darkened and he
bent and peered toward it like a beast about to spring on its prey.

"He is not here, father," Tilly said, in almost a gentle whisper.

"Not here? Where has he gone?"

She hesitated and then answered, "Out in the country, father."

"I don't believe it." He turned, automatically laid his hand on his
revolver, and left the room. She stood still. She heard him stalking
from room to room, now striking against a chair or a table or tripping
on a rug. Through the window she saw the cabman, his gaze on the cottage
door. Whaley passed the window; he was walking around the house; his
hand was in his right pocket; he stumbled over a tuft of grass, almost
fell, and uttered a snort of fury. She raised a window at the side of
the house, and saw him looking into the little woodshed in the rear of
the lot. He turned and strode back to the cottage, entering at the
kitchen door and clamping over the resounding floor back to her.

"Where is he? I say," he snarled.

"I told you, father," she said. "Why--what is the matter? What do you
want? Why are you so excited?"

"You know well enough!" he cried. "Don't stand there and tell me that
you don't know all or more than I do. Show him to me. I want to meet the
white-livered atheistic agent of hell. And when I do meet him he'll