“There is the effect.  The cause—­Kirke Connor.

“Carol, has David ever explained to you what fatal fascination a semi-satanic man has for nice, white women?  I have been at father many times on the subject, and he says, ’Connie, be reasonable, what do I know about semi-satanics?’ Then he goes down-town.  See if you can get anything out of David on the subject and let me know.

“Kirke is a semi-satanic.  Also a minister’s son.  He has been in trouble of one kind or another ever since I first met him, when he was fourteen years old.  He fairly seethed his way through college.  Mr. Connor has resigned from the active ministry now and lives in Mount Mark, and Kirke bought a partnership in Mr. Ives’ furniture store and goes his troubled, riotous way as heretofore.  That is, he did until recently.

“A few weeks ago I missed my railway connections and had to lay over for three hours in Fairfield.  I checked my suit-case and started out to look up some of my friends.  As I went out one door, I glimpsed the vanishing point of a man’s coat exiting in the opposite direction.  I started to cut across the corner, but a backward glance revealed a man’s hat and one eye peering around the corner of the station.  Was I being detected?  I stopped in my tracks, my literary instinct on the alert.  The hat slowly pivoted a head into view.  It was Kirke Connor.  He shuffled toward me, glancing back and forth in a curious, furtive way.  His face was harrowed, his eyes blood-shot.  He clutched my hand breathlessly and clung to me as to the proverbial straw.

“‘Have you seen Matters?’ he asked.

“‘Matters?’

“‘You know Matters,—­the sheriff at Mount Mark.’

“I looked at him in a way which I trust became the daughter of a district superintendent of the Methodist Episcopal Church.

“He mopped his fevered brow.

“‘He has been on my trail for two days.’  Then he twinkled, more like himself.  ’It has been a hot trail, too, if I do say it who shouldn’t.  If he has had a full breath for the last forty-eight hours, I am ashamed of myself.’

“‘But what in the world—­’

“’Let’s duck into the station a minute.  I know the freight agent and he will hide me in a trunk if need be.  I will tell you about it.  It is enough to make your blood run cold.’

“Honestly, it was running cold already.  Here was literature for the asking.  Kirke’s wild appearance, his furtive manner, the searching sheriff—­a plot made to order.  So I tried to forget the M. E. Universal, and we slipped into the station and seated ourselves comfortably on some egg boxes in a shadowy corner where he told his sad, sad tale.

“’Connie, you keep a wary eye on the world, the flesh and the devil.  I know whereof I speak.  Other earth-born creatures may flirt with sin and escape unscathed.  But the Lord is after the minister’s son.’

“‘I thought it was the sheriff after you?’ I interrupted.