in placing it at once.  Up to this time one woman resembled another; feminine faces made no particular impression on his memory.  He would have remembered the face of the man who had just passed, for the very fact that he had thought of it often.  The man had come into the dim radiance of the far light, then had melted into the blackness of the night again, leaving as a sign of his presence the creak of his shoes and the aroma of a cigarette.

Fitzgerald tramped on cheerfully.  It was not an unpleasant climb, only dark.  The millionaire’s home seemed to grow up out of a fine park.  There was a great iron fence inclosing the grounds, and the lights on top of the gates set the dull red trunks of the pines a-glowing.  There were no lights shining in the windows of the pretty lodge.  Still, the pedestrians’ gate was ajar.  He passed in, fully expecting to be greeted by the growl of a dog.  Instead, he heard mysterious footsteps on the gravel.  He listened.  Some one was running.

“Hello, there!” he called.

No answer.  The sound ceased.  The runner had evidently taken to the silent going of the turf.  Fitzgerald came to a stand.  Should he go on or return to the hotel?  Whoever was running had no right here.  Fitzgerald rarely carried arms, at least in civilized countries; a stout cane was the best weapon for general purposes.  He swung this lightly.

“I am going on.  I should like to see the library.”

He was not overfond of unknown dangers in the night; but he possessed a keen ear and a sharp pair of eyes, being a good hunter.  A poacher, possibly.  At any rate, he determined to go forward and ring the bell.

Both the park and the house were old.  Some of those well-trimmed pines had scored easily a hundred and fifty years, and the oak, standing before the house and dividing the view into halves, was older still.  No iron deer or marble lion marred the lawn which he was now traversing; a sign of good taste.  Gardeners had been at work here, men who knew their business thoroughly.  He breathed the odor of trampled pine needles mingled with the harsher essence of the sea.  It was tonic.

In summer the place would be beautiful.  The house itself was built on severe and simple lines.  It was quite apparent that in no time of its history had it been left to run down.  The hall and lower left wing were lighted, but the inner blinds and curtains were drawn.  He did not waste any time.  It was exactly eight o’clock when he stepped up to the door and pulled the ancient wire bell.  At once he saw signs of life.  The broad door opened, and an English butler, having scrutinized his face, silently motioned him to be seated.  The young man in search of an adventure selected the far end of the hall seat and dandled his hat.  An English butler was a good beginning.  Perhaps three minutes passed, then the door to the library opened and a young woman came out.  Fitzgerald stood up.