height, leaned his neighbor's low conservatory, almost spanning it from
side to side.

"Sure, sir, I don't know whether it's breakfast or supper that's waiting
for you." Captain Forsythe's man had reappeared and stood now at the top
of the landing looking in at him. "It's a sound sleep you've had."

John Steele glanced at the clock; the afternoon was waning. Why did not
his enemies force their way in, surround him at once? Unless--and this
might prove a momentary saving clause!--these people without were but an
advance guard, an outpost, awaiting orders. In this event Gillett would
hastily be sent for; would soon be on his way---

"'Tis a rasher of real Irish bacon that is awaiting your convenience,
sir."

The servant was now eying the visitor dubiously; John Steele wheeled, a
perfunctory answer on his lips, and going to the dining-room swallowed
hastily a few mouthfuls. From where he sat he could command a view of
the front gate, and kept glancing toward it when alone. To go now,--or
wait? The daylight did not favor the former course unless his pursuers
should suddenly appear before the locked gate, demanding admission.

He made up his mind as to his course then, the last desperate shift.
Amid a turmoil of thoughts a certain letter he had had in mind to send
to Captain Forsythe occurred to him, and calling for paper and pen, he
wrote there, facing the window, feverishly, hastily, several pages; then
he gave the letter to the servant for the postman, whose special call at
the iron knocker without had just sounded. The letter would have served
John Steele ill had it fallen into his enemies' hands, but once in the