Mr. Copewell turned on his heel and began foraging for firewood. Mr. Connors looked on without comment. When the blaze was at last glowing prosperously, its radius of light revealed to him the suit-case which lay near the track a short distance away. “Now I don’t know you and you don’t know me,” tersely began Mr. Copewell. “It is vitally important to me to telephone to Jaffa Junction. When the Eastern express comes by, it is also important to flag it. Do you know this country? Do you know where there’s a farmhouse?” Mr. Connors shook his head. “Neither do I,” went on Mr. Copewell. “Now, whatever you do for me, you get paid for. I can’t be in two places at once and I’m going to hunt for a ’phone. I’ll be back shortly, but if I miss that train I want you to flag it and ask whether Miss Asheton is on board. If she is, you must give the conductor a note for her.” Mr. Connors was eying the suit-case. He thought the absence of the other man would afford him a better chance to investigate its possible value. “Sure,” was his ready response. “I’d do most anyt’ing fer a pal.” Mr. Copewell tore a page from his notebook and hastily scribbled this message: Dearest: Am caught in the Mill of the Inexorable. I can’t explain now. I’ll follow you to Europe and it will only mean a delay. I love you. Reserve judgment and you will understand. He then plunged into the smothering tangle of the hills. Had he been told that there existed in his State such void and unpeopled wastes, he would, as a patriotic citizen, have resented the charge. He climbed a tree, remembering that all the correspondence courses in woodcraft advise survey from an eminence. The net results were a bark-scraped face, bruised shins and spoiled wedding-clothes. But at last, with a leap of joy, he descried a dim light off to the left. Where there are lights there is humanity, and where there is humanity there may be information—possibly even a telephone. * * * * * He had meant to remain close enough to the track to reach it if he heard the train whistle, but this light lured him like a marsh-fire, through briars and over deceptive distances. At last it grew steady and Mr. Copewell went forward at an encouraged trot. A rise of ground confronted him. He rushed across it as though he were charging Fate’s artillery. He did not know that the ridge was in reality the brush-cloaked edge of a steep river-bank, any more than he knew that the light he sought was on the opposite side of the stream. He became apprised of both facts, however, a half-second later, when the ground dropped out from under him and he found himself floundering in cold, deep water.