Bob turned and looked up the road. The nearest house was that occupied by Henry Campton, father of Carrie Campton whom Bob knew slightly and had seen that evening in the “Pinafore” chorus at the town hall. The Campton cottage was on the other side of the way, but its windows were dark. He turned to look in the opposite direction and as he did so, he heard, from somewhere behind him, a door close softly. Turning once more, he saw a figure walking rapidly toward the spot where the span was tethered. Bob started to walk away and then hesitated. He was curious, naturally. If the person approaching was Captain Foster Townsend he had no wish to meet him; but if, as was more probable, the person was Varunas Gifford then he was tempted to wait and ask what he was doing there at two o’clock in the morning. So he remained in the shadow by the carriage. It was not until the newcomer was within a few feet of him that the recognition came. The man who had come out of the Campton house was neither Townsend nor Gifford, but Seymour Covell. Covell did not recognize Bob. It was not until the latter moved that he grasped the fact that there was any one there. Then he started, stopped and leaned forward to look. “Who is that?” he demanded, sharply. Bob stepped out from the shadow. “It is all right, Covell,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed.” Covell did not, apparently, recognize him even then. He stood still and tried to peer under the shade of the Griffin hatbrim. “Who is it?” he repeated, his tone still sharply anxious. Bob pushed back the hat. “Griffin,” he answered. “It is all right. Nothing to be frightened about.” Covell took a step toward him. “Eh?” he queried. “What--? Oh, it is you, is it! I couldn’t see.” Then, after a moment, he added: “What are you doing here?” The tone in which the question was put was neither pleasant nor polite. There was resentment in it and suspicion, so it seemed to Griffin. He was strongly tempted to counter with an inquiry of his own, for surely his presence at that spot at that time was not more out of the ordinary than Seymour Covell’s. His explanation was easy to give, however, so he gave it. “Nothing in particular,” he replied. “I have been down at my shanty, the one I use as a studio, and I was walking back when I saw these horses standing here. I wondered, at first, whose they were and then why they had been left here at this time of night. So I stopped for a minute to investigate, that is all.” The explanation was complete and truthful, but Covell seemed to find it far from satisfactory. “Humph!” he grunted, still scrutinizing Griffin intently and with a frown. “That is all, is it? You weren’t here for any particular reason, then?” “No. Why should I be?” “I don’t know why you should. I can’t see that you need be concerned with these horses. Nor why they were left here or who left them, for that matter. What business was it of yours?”