of his eye. He had learned to read people by their own eyes, and he
had seen how hers burned when she looked at them. Strength of will and
intent lie in the human eye. Unless it is purposely veiled it tells the
mind and power that are in the brain back of it.

A fear of her crept slowly over him. Perhaps the fear came because,
obviously, she had no fear at all of him, or of Whitley or of the
soldiers. After their short dialogue she had returned to her old
immobility. Neither her body nor her head moved, only her hands, and
the motion was wholly from the wrists. She was one of the three Fates,
knitting steadily and knitting up the destiny of men.

He shook himself. His was a sound and healthy mind, and he would allow
no taint of morbidness to enter it. He knew that there was nothing
supernatural in the world, but he did believe that this woman with the
gray hair, the burning eyes and the sharp chin, looking as if it had been
cut from a piece of steel, was the possessor of uncanny wisdom. Beyond a
doubt she knew where the marksman was hidden, and, unless he watched her
ceaselessly, she would give him a signal of some kind.

Perhaps he was hidden in the garden among the rose bushes, and he would
see her hand, if it was raised ever so slightly. Maybe that was why the
window was open, because the clearest glass even could obscure a signal
meant to be faint, unnoticed by all except the one for whom it was
intended. He would have that garden searched thoroughly when the
sergeant returned, and his heart beat with a throb of relief when he
heard the stalwart Whitley's footstep once more at the door.

"We have found nothing, sir," said the sergeant. "We've explored every
place big enough to hide a cat."