the elm avenue, it came to me how, in the darkness about, menace
lurked; and I felt myself succumbing to the greatest dread
experienced by man--the dread of the unknown.

All that I knew of the weird group of fanatics--survivals of a dim
and evil past--who must now be watching this cottage as bloodlustful
devotees watch a shrine violated, burst upon my mind. I peopled the
still blackness with lurking assassins, armed with the murderous
knowledge of by-gone centuries, armed with invisible weapons which
struck down from afar, supernaturally.

I glanced toward the corner of the room where the safe stood,
reliquary of a worthless thing for which much blood had been spilled.

Then sounded footsteps along the avenue, and my fear whispered that
they were not those of Bristol but of one who had murdered him, and
who came guilefully, to murder me!

I snatched the revolver from my pocket and crossed the darkened room.
Just to the right of one of the French windows I stood looking out
across the loggia to the end of the avenue. The night was a bright
one, and the room was flooded with a reflected mystic light, but
outside the moon paved the avenue with pearl, and through the trees
I saw a figure approaching.

Was it Bristol? It had his build, it had his gait; but my fears
remained. Then the figure crossed the patch of shrubbery and stepped
on to the loggia.

"Mr. Cavanagh!"