the mail bag, still lying where the man had flung it. It was like the
swift passing of a summer storm. The man's whole expression underwent a
complete transformation. The mail! The mail from Quebec--unopened!

He sprang to his feet. For the moment Idepski, Hellbeam, everything was
forgotten. His thought had bridged the miles between Farewell Cove and
the ancient city of the early French, Nancy! That woman--that devoted
wife who was striving with all the power of a frail body to serve him.
There would be a letter in that mail from Nisson, telling him--Yes.
There might even be a letter from Nancy herself.

The sack was in his hands. He had broken the seals. He shook out the
contents upon the floor. A packet of less than half a hundred letters,
and the rest was an assortment of parcels of all shapes and sizes. It
was the letter packet that interested him, and he untied the string that
held it.

A swift search produced the expected. Standing looked for the
handwriting of Charles Nisson, the shrewd, obscure lawyer in the country
town of Abercrombie. He had never yet failed him. He would not be likely
to. A bulky letter remained in his hand. The others lay scattered
broadcast upon the desk.

For some moments he held the letter unopened. The lean fingers felt the
bulk of the envelope, while feverish eyes surveyed, and read over and
over the address in the familiar small, cramped handwriting. The impulse
of the moment was to tear open the letter forthwith, to snatch at the
tidings he felt it to contain. But something deterred. Something left
him doubting, hesitating. It was what Bat had called his "yellow
streak." Suppose--suppose--But with all his might he thrust his fears