"It's the other side," said Peter, "that is unusual." And unrolling it carefully, he laid it flat on the table beside his employer's breakfast tray and then stood back to note the effect of the disclosure.

McGuire stared at the headline, starting violently, and then, as though fascinated, read the scrawl through to the end. Peter could not see his face, but the back of his neck, the ragged fringe of moist hair around his bald spot were eloquent enough. And the hands which held the extraordinary doc.u.ment were far from steady. The gay flowers of the dressing gown mocked the pitiable figure it concealed, which seemed suddenly to sag into its chair. Peter waited. For a long while the dressing gown was dumb and then as though its occupant were slowly awakening to the thought that something was required of him it stirred and turned slowly in the chair.

"You--you've read this?" asked McGuire weakly.

"Yes, sir. It was there to read. It was merely stuck on a tree with this hasp-knife," and Peter produced the implement and handed it to McGuire.

McGuire took the knife--twisting it slowly over in his fingers. "A hasp-knife," he repeated dully.

"I thought it best to bring them to you," said Peter, "especially on account of----"

"Yes, yes. Of course." He was staring at the red crayon scrawl and as he said nothing more Peter turned toward the door, where Stryker stood on guard.

"If there's nothing else just now, I'll----"

"Wait!" uttered the old man, and Peter paused. And then, "Did any one else see this--this paper?"

"Yes--Mrs. Bergen's niece--she saw it first."

"My housekeeper's niece. Any one else?"

"I don't know. I hardly think so. It seemed quite freshly written."

"Ah----" muttered McGuire. He was now regarding Peter intently.

"Where--where is the tree on which you found it?"

"A maple--just in the wood--at the foot of the lawn."

"Ah!" He stumbled to the window, the placard still clutched in his hands, and peered at the woods as though seeking to pick out the single tree marked for his exacerbation. Then jerked himself around and faced the bearer of these tidings, glaring at him as though he were the author of them.

"G---- d---- you all!" he swore in a stifled tone.

"I beg pardon," said Peter with sharp politeness.

McGuire glanced at Peter and fell heavily into the nearest armchair. "It can't--be done," he muttered, half to himself, and then another oath. He was showing his early breeding now.

"I might 'a' known----," he said aloud, staring at the paper.

"Then it isn't a joke?" asked Peter, risking the question.

"Joke!" roared McGuire. And then more quietly, "A joke? I don't want it talked about," he muttered with a senile smile. And then, "You say a woman read it?"

"Yes."

"She must be kept quiet. I can't have all the neighborhood into my affairs."

"I think that can be managed. I'll speak to her. In the meanwhile if there's anything I can do----"

McGuire looked up at Peter and their glances met. McGuire's glance wavered and then came back to Peter's face. What he found there seemed to satisfy him for he turned to Stryker, who had been listening intently.

"You may go, Stryker," he commanded. "Shut the door, but stay within call."

The valet's face showed surprise and some disappointment, but he merely bowed his head and obeyed.

"I suppose you're--you're curious about this message, Nichols--coming in such a way," said McGuire, after a pause.

"To tell the truth, I am, sir," replied Peter. "We've done all we could to protect you. This 'Hawk' must be the devil himself."

"He is," repeated McGuire. "h.e.l.l's breed. The thing can't go on. I've got to put a stop to it--and to him."

"He speaks of coming again Friday night----"

"Yes--yes--Friday." And then, his fingers trembling along the placard, "I've got to do what he wants--this time--just this time----"

McGuire was gasping out the phrases as though each of them was wrenched from his throat. And then, with an effort at self-control,

"Sit down, Nichols," he muttered. "Since you've seen this, I--I'll have to tell you more. I--I think--I'll need you--to help me."

Peter obeyed, flattered by his employer's manner and curious as to the imminent revelations.

"I may say that--this--this 'Hawk' is a--an enemy of mine, Nichols--a bitter enemy--unscrupulous--a man better dead than alive. I--I wish to G.o.d you'd shot him last night."

"Sorry, sir," said Peter cheerfully.

"I--I've got to do what he wants--this time. I can't have this sort of thing goin' on--with everybody in Black Rock reading these d.a.m.n things.

You're sure my daughter Peggy knows nothing?"

"I'd be pretty sure of that----"

"But she might--any time--if he puts up more placards. I've got to stop that, Nichols. This thing mustn't go any further."

"I think you may trust me."

"Yes. I think I can. I've _got_ to trust you now, whether I want to or no. The man who wrote this scrawl is the man I came down here to get away from." Peter waited while McGuire paused. "You may think it's very strange. It is strange. I knew this man--called 'Hawk,' many years ago.

I--I thought he was dead, but he's come back."

McGuire paused again, the placard in his hands, reading the line which so clearly announced that fact.

"He speaks of something I've got--something he's got, Nichols. It's a paper--a--er--a partnership paper we drew up years ago--out West and signed. That paper is of great value to me. As long as he holds it I----," McGuire halted to wipe the sweat from his pallid brow. "He holds it as a--well--not exactly as a threat--but as a kind of menace to my happiness and Peggy's."

"I understand, sir," put in Peter quietly. "Blackmail, in short."

"Exactly--er--blackmail. He wanted five thousand dollars--in New York. I refused him--there's no end to blackmail once you yield--and I came down here--but he followed me. But I've got to get that paper away from him."

"If you were sure he had it with him----"

"That's just it. He's too smart for that. He's got it hidden somewhere.

I've got to get this money for him--from New York--I haven't got it in the house--before Friday night----"