"Sit down, Nichols. Another gla.s.s, Stryker. So." He poured the whisky with an a.s.sumption of ease and they drank.

"You see, Nichols," he went on as he set his empty gla.s.s down, "I know what I'm about. There _is_ somebody trying to get at me. It's no dream--no hallucination. You know that too, now. I saw him--I would have shot him through the window--if it hadn't been for Peggy--and the others--but I--I didn't dare--for reasons. She mustn't know----" And then eagerly, "She doesn't suspect anything yet, does she, Nichols?"

Peter gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the sounds which still came from below.

"No. They're having a good time."

"That's all right. To-morrow they'll be leaving for New York, I hope.

And then we'll meet this issue squarely. You say the man has gone. Why do you think so?"

"Isn't it reasonable to think so? His visit was merely a reconnoissance.

I think he had probably been lying out in the underbrush all day, getting the lay of the land, watching what we were doing--seeing where the men were placed. But he must know now that he'll have to try something else--that he hasn't a chance of getting to you past these guards, if you don't want him to."

"But he nearly succeeded to-night," mumbled McGuire dubiously.

Peter was silent a moment.

"I'm not supposed to question and I won't. But it seems to me, Mr.

McGuire, that if this visitor's plan were to murder you, to get rid of you, he would have shot you down to-night, through the window. From his failure to do so, there is one definite conclusion to draw--and that is that he wants to see you--to talk with you----"

McGuire fairly threw himself from his chair as he roared,

"I can't see him. I won't. I won't see anybody. I've got the law on my side. A man's house is his castle. A fellow prowls around here in the dark. He's been seen--if he's shot it's his own lookout. And he _will_ be shot before he reaches me. You hear me? Your men must shoot--shoot to kill. If they fail I'll----"

He shrugged as if at the futility of his own words, which came stumbling forth, born half of fear, half of braggadocio.

Peter regarded him soberly. It was difficult to conceive of this man, who talked like a madman and a spoiled child, as the silent, stubborn, friendless millionaire, as the power in finance that Sheldon, Senior, had described him to be. The love of making money had succ.u.mbed to a more primitive pa.s.sion which for the time being had mastered him. From what had been revealed, it seemed probable that it was not death or bodily injury that he feared, for Peter had seen him stand up at the window, a fair target for any good marksman, but an interview with this nocturnal visitor who seemed bent upon bringing it about. Indeed, the childish bravado of his last speech had voiced a wish, but beneath the wish Peter had guessed a protest against the inevitable.

Peter acknowledged McGuire's right to seclusion in his own house, but he found himself wondering whether death for the intruder as proposed by his employer were a justifiable means of preserving it, especially if the strange visitor did not himself use violence to gain his ends. And so, when McGuire presently poured himself another gla.s.s of whisky, and drank it, Peter took the liberty of asking the question.

"I am ignorant of your laws in this country, Mr. McGuire, but doesn't it seem that short of forcible entry of this house we would hardly be justified in shooting the man?"

"I take the responsibility for that."

"I understand. But what I was going to propose was a hunt through the woods to-morrow. A description of this man would be helpful. For instance, whether he was smoothly shaven or whether he had a beard--or--or a mustache?"

McGuire scowled.

"The man has a slight growth of beard--of mustache. But what difference does that make? No one has a right here--without my permission."

Peter sipped at his gla.s.s. As he had suspected, there were two of them.

"That's true. But even with this, we can move with more intelligence.

This forest is your property. If we find any person who can't give an account of himself, we could take him into custody and turn him over to the proper authorities."

"No. No," cried McGuire. "And have him set loose after a trivial examination? Little good that would do. This man who is trying to reach me----"

McGuire stopped suddenly, glaring at his superintendent with bloodshot eyes, and Peter very politely waited for him to go on. But he brought his empty gla.s.s down on the table with a crash which shattered it.

"He mustn't reach me," he roared. "I won't see him. That's understood.

He's a man I'd have no more compunction about shooting than----"

McGuire, with a curious suddenness, stopped again. Then rose and resumed his habit of pacing the floor. For a moment it had almost seemed as if he were on the point of a revelation. But the mood pa.s.sed. Instead of speaking further he threw out his arms in a wide gesture.

"I've said enough," he growled, "more than enough. You know your duty."

And he gestured toward the door. "Do it!" he finished brusquely.

Peter had already risen, and Stryker unemotionally opened the door for him.

"I'll stay on duty all night, Mr. McGuire," he said quietly. "I'd advise you to turn in and get some sleep. You need it."

"Yes. Yes, I will. Thanks, Nichols," said McGuire, following him to the door and offering a flabby hand. "Don't mind what I've said to-night. I think we understand each other. Stryker will see that the house is locked when the young people come up. Keep your men to the mark and take no chances."

"Good-night."

The remainder of the night, as Mrs. Bergen had predicted, proved uneventful, and at daylight Peter went to his cabin and tumbled into bed, too tired to think further of McGuire's visitors--or even of the man with the black mustache.

The next day he lay abed luxuriously for a while after he had awakened, but no amount of quiet thinking availed to clarify the mystery. There were two men, one bearded, interested in watching McGuire, another with a black mustache, interested in Peter. And so, after wondering again for some puzzling moments as to how Mrs. Bergen, the housekeeper, had come to be involved in McGuire's fortunes, he gave the problem up.

Foreseeing difficulties over breakfast at the house, he had arranged to make his own coffee on a small oil stove which happened to be available, and so Peter set the pot on to boil and while he dressed turned over in his mind the possibilities of the future. It seemed quite certain that the antagonism, whatever its nature, between his employer and the prowling stranger must come to an issue of some sort almost at once. The intruder, if he were the sort of man who could inspire terror, would not remain content merely to prowl fruitlessly about with every danger of being shot for his pains, and McGuire could hardly remain long in his present situation without a physical or mental collapse.

Why hadn't McGuire taken flight? Why indeed had he come to Black Rock House when it seemed that he would have been much safer amongst the crowds of the city, where he could fall back upon the protection of the police and their courts for immunity from this kind of persecution?

Pieced together, the phrases his employer had let slip suggested the thought that he had come to Black Rock to escape publicity in anything that might happen. And McGuire's insistence upon the orders that the guards should shoot to kill also suggested, rather unpleasantly, the thought that McGuire knew who the visitor was and earnestly desired his death.

But Mrs. Bergen could have no such wish, for, unlike McGuire, she had shown a reticence in her fears, as though her silence had been intended to protect rather than to accuse. Beth Cameron, too, was in some way unconsciously involved in the adventure. But how? He drank his coffee and ate his roll, a prey to a very lively curiosity. Beth interested him. And if Aunt Tillie Bergen, her only near relative, showed signs of inquietude on the girl's account, the mysterious visitor surely had it in his power to make her unhappy. As he washed up the dishes and made his bed, Peter decided that he would find Beth to-night when she came back from work and ask her some questions about her Aunt Tillie.

Beth Cameron saved him that trouble. He was sitting at the piano, awaiting a telephone call to Black Rock House, where he was to have a conference with his employer on the forestry situation. He was so deeply absorbed in his music that he was unaware of the figure that had stolen through the underbrush and was now hidden just outside the door. It was Beth. She stood with the fingers of one hand lightly touching the edge of the door-jamb, the other hand at her breast, while she listened, poised lightly as though for flight. But a playful breeze twitched at the hem of her skirt, flicking it out into the patch of sunlight by the doorsill, and Peter caught the glint of white from the tail of his eye.

The music ceased suddenly and before Beth could flee into the bushes Peter had caught her by the hand.

Now that she was discovered she made no effort to escape him.

"I--I was listening," she gasped.

"Why, Beth," he exclaimed, voicing the name in his thoughts. "How long have you been here?"

"I--I don't know. Not long."

"I'm so glad."

She was coloring very prettily.

"You--you told me you--you'd play for me sometime," she said demurely.

"Of course. Won't you come in? It's rather a mess here, but----"

He led her in, glancing at her gingham dress, a little puzzled.