“Sure enough after a while we came across Matters talking to a couple of farmers on the cross roads, and Kirke and I stopped a quarter of a mile farther down and ate sandwiches and told stories, and when Matters passed us a little later he could have sworn we were there just for our joy in each other’s company.  But we did not learn anything.

“The next day we were out again, with no better luck.  But the third day about four in the afternoon, Kirke called me on the telephone.  There was subtle excitement in his voice.

“‘Come for a drive, Connie?’ he asked; common words, but there was a world of hidden invitation, of secret lure, in his voice for me.

“‘Yes, gladly,’ I said.  Father did not nod approvingly and Aunt Grace did not smile this time.  Three days in succession was a little too warm even for a newly made pillar, but they said nothing and Kirke and I set out.

“’He raided Jack Mott’s last night and has about three hundred bottles to smash this afternoon.  The old fellow is pretty fond of the ice-cold bottles himself and it is common report that he raids just often enough to keep himself supplied.  So I think I’ll keep an eye on him to-day.  He started half an hour ago, south road, and he has Gus Waldron with him,—­his boon companion, and the most notoriously ardent devotee of the bottles in all dear dry Mount Mark.  Lovely day for a drive, isn’t it?’

“‘Yes, lovely.’  I was very happy.  I felt like a princess of old, riding off into danger, and I felt very warm and friendly toward Kirke.  Remember that he is very good-looking and just bad enough in spite of his new pillar-hood, to be spell-binding, and—­it was lots of fun.  Kirke grabbed my hand and squeezed it chummily, and I smiled at him.

“‘You are a glorious girl,’ he said.

“I suppose I should have reminded him and myself that he was a semi-satanic, but I did not.  I laughed and rubbed the back of his hand softly with the tips of my nice pink finger nails, and laughed again.

“Then here came a light wagon,—­Matters and Waldron,—­going home, and we realized we had been loitering on the job.  Kirke shook his head impatiently.

“‘You distracted me,’ he said.  ’I forgot my reputation’s salvation in the smile of your eye.’

“But we drove on to look the field over.  Less than half a mile down the road we came to a low creek with rocky rugged banks.  The banks were splashed and splattered with bits of glass, and over the glass and over the rocks ran thin trickling streams of a pale brown liquid that had a perfectly sickening odor.  I sniffed disgustedly as we walked over to reconnoiter.

“‘I guess he made good all right,’ said Kirke in a disappointed voice, inspecting the glass-splattered banks of the creek.  Then he leaped across and walked lightly up the bank on the opposite side.  Stooping down, he lifted an unbroken bottle and waved it at me, laughing.