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“Why should a watchman hide behind a tree?” asked the girl. “And why—-“

She ceased abruptly with a sharp cry of fright. “What’s that?” she whispered.

“What’s what?” asked the young man startled. “What did you hear?”

“Over there,” stammered the girl. “Something–that–groaned.”

“Pretty soon this will get on my nerves,” said the man. He ripped open his greatcoat and reached under it. “I’ve been stoned twice, when there were women in the car,” he said, apologetically, “and so now at night I carry a gun.” He shifted the darkened torch to his left hand, and, moving a few yards, halted to listen. The girl, reluctant to be left alone, followed slowly. As he stood immovable there came from the leaves just beyond him the sound of a feeble struggle, and a strangled groan. The man bent forward and flashed the torch. He saw stretched rigid on the ground a huge wolf-hound. Its legs were twisted horribly, the lips drawn away from the teeth, the eyes glazed in an agony of pain. The man snapped off the light. “Keep back!” he whispered to the girl. He took her by the arm and ran with her toward the gate.

“Who was it?” she begged.

“It was a dog,” he answered. “I think—-“

He did not tell her what he thought.

“I’ve got to find out what the devil has happened to Fred!” he said. “You go back to the car. Send your brother here on the run. Tell him there’s going to be a rough-house. You’re not afraid to go?”

“No,” said the girl.

A shadow blacker than the night rose suddenly before them, and a voice asked sternly but quietly: “What are you doing here?”

The young man lifted his arm clear of the girl, and shoved her quickly from him. In his hand she felt the pressure of the revolver.

“Well,” he replied truculently, “and what are you doing here?”

“I am the night watchman,” answered the voice. “Who are you?”

It struck Miss Forbes if the watchman knew that one of the trespassers was a woman he would be at once reassured, and she broke in quickly:

“We have lost our way,” she said pleasantly. “We came here—-“

She found herself staring blindly down a shaft of light. For an instant the torch held her, and then from her swept over the young man.

“Drop that gun!” cried the voice. It was no longer the same voice; it was now savage and snarling. For answer the young man pressed the torch in his left hand, and, held in the two circles of light, the men surveyed each other. The newcomer was one of unusual bulk and height. The collar of his overcoat hid his mouth, and his derby hat was drawn down over his forehead, but what they saw showed an intelligent, strong face, although for the moment it wore a menacing scowl. The young man dropped his revolver into his pocket.

“My automobile ran dry,” he said; “we came in here to get some water. My chauffeur is back there somewhere with a couple of buckets. This is Mr. Carey’s place, isn’t it?”

“Take that light out of my eyes!” said the watchman.

“Take your light out of my eyes,” returned the young man. “You can see we’re not–we don’t mean any harm.”

The two lights disappeared simultaneously, and then each, as though worked by the same hand, sprang forth again.

“What did you think I was going to do?” the young man asked. He laughed and switched off his torch.

But the one the watchman held in his hand still moved from the face of the girl to that of the young man.

“How’d you know this was the Carey house?” he demanded. “Do you know Mr. Carey?”

“No, but I know this is his house.” For a moment from behind his mask of light the watchman surveyed them in silence. Then he spoke quickly: