At last he came upon a point where, through a gap in the timber-line, he saw a dilapidated and almost shapeless bulk etched darkly against the star-punctured sky. Now, disclaiming any intention to speak with aspersion of Mr. Connors, it must be said that his profession made his habits largely nocturnal. Men who operate in darkness share with the cat the power to use their eyes where the honest householder would find himself blind. To Mr. Connors the well-nigh shapeless mass defined itself into a building, and the erect projection at its top into a modest steeple, proclaiming it a “meeting-house.” A church on a hill, in the middle of the night, offers little encouragement to a man seeking living aid. Toppling smudges of lighter gray flanked its walls, telling of men and women who slept in the enclosure, but these men and women were all dead. The smudges were their gravestones. The eyes of Mr. Connors went farther back, penetrating the darkness, and discovered a second and more indistinct pile. That might be the parsonage! Mr. Connors halted for reflection. Churches were establishments distinctly out of his line. Parsons were gentlemen engaged in a different, even a hostile, profession. On the other hand, churchmen might be expected to lend an attentive ear to tales of distress. Mr. Rat Connors turned into the churchyard, shivering instinctively as he passed among the graves. Mr. Connors was a simple soul easily awed by the Great Phenomenon of death. No lights shone from the windows or doors of the house in the rear. At this hour honest folk slept, in that vicinity. Before the house hung a rickety gate, and Mr. Connors had his hand on the latch, when his entire plan of campaign underwent sudden revision. He had intended entering the gate, proceeding up the grass-grown walk and hammering at the front door. Instead, he went fleetly up the fence, paused on its top only long enough to grasp an over-arching branch, then swung himself precipitately into a convenient tree. The cause of this sudden change of itinerary remained below, since it is the wise dispensation of Providence that dogs can not climb trees. The Cause, however, in his sudden heat and passion, did not seem willing to admit that Providence had acted wisely in the matter. He gave evidence of a desire to pursue Mr. Connors into the upper branches. It was clear that the Cause was given to violent and hasty prejudices and that Mr. Connors had aroused such a prejudice. The dog squatted below and leaped into the air. When he alighted he leaped again. Mr. Connors, straddling a limb, the strength of which was not guaranteed, was ready to admit without cavil that the animal was jumping some. The brute seemed gifted with an almost Rooseveltian strenuousness and sincerity. Even in his moments of resting between efforts there was a grim determination in his pose which indicated his intention of remaining until Mr. Connors came down.