holster, and dragging the coat to him, fished out a letter from an
inside pocket. It was a dirty, much worn letter. Perhaps he had read it
a score of times. He read it again now, and then, refilling his pipe,
settled back against the rock that formed a rest for his shoulders and
turned his eyes in the direction of the sloop.

The last rim of the sun had fallen below the Michigan wilderness and in
the rapidly increasing gloom the sloop was becoming indistinguishable.
Captain Plum looked at his watch. He must still wait a little longer
before setting out upon the adventure that had brought him to this
isolated spot. He rested his head against the rock, and thought. He had
been thinking for hours. Back in the thicket he heard the prowling of
some small animal. There came the sleepy chirp of a bird and the
rustling of tired wings settling for the night. A strange stillness
hovered about him, and with it there came over him a loneliness that was
chilling, a loneliness that made him homesick. It was a new and
unpleasant sensation to Captain Plum. He could not remember just when he
had experienced it before; that is, if he dated the present from two
weeks ago to-night. It was then that the letter had been handed to him
in Chicago, and it had been a weight upon his soul and a prick to his
conscience ever since. Once or twice he had made up his mind to destroy
it, but each time he had repented at the last moment. In a sudden
revulsion at his weakness he pulled himself together, crumpled the
dirty missive into a ball, and flung it out upon the white rim of beach.

At this action there came a quick movement in the dense wall of verdure
behind him. Noiselessly the tangle of vines separated and a head thrust
itself out in time to see the bit of paper fall short of the water's
edge. Then the head shot back as swiftly and as silently as a serpent's.
Perhaps Captain Plum heard the gloating chuckle that followed the