Dick saw her climbing the hill, the joyous wind wreathing the curves of her lithe and gracious form, to the place where Haynes was buried, and watched her until a shoulder of the knoll shut her completely from view. “It was high time for an antidote,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Haynes would have bade me do it; I know he would.” Helga knelt by a high boulder that crowned the knoll and arranged the flowers that she had brought up that morning for her friend’s grave. “Oh, Petit Père,” she whispered sobbingly, “if you only were here to tell me! It is hard to know what is best. So hard!” Something moved in the bushes not far away. The shrubbery parted, and there emerged on all fours the squat and powerful figure of “The Wonderful Whalley.” He was unkempt and white; the murderousness was gone from his face. As a dog cringes, expectant of a blow, he moved reluctantly forward. The girl faced him with a tense carriage in which was no inkling of fear. “Ze lady shall forgive ze poor arteest,” he said, holding out hands of supplication. “I would kill you if I could,” she said, very low. “The Wonderful Whalley’s” hand went to his belt, but the great-bladed knives no longer were there. Fumbling in his pocket, he drew forth another knife, opened it and threw it at her feet. “I am ready,” he said. Helga looked at the knife, and then at him with unutterable loathing. The man gave a little groan. “Do not!” he said. “I was cr-r-razy! Eet ees gone, now. Eet was ze beating of ze sea. I haf not know zat I keel until now I break out of my preeson las’ night an’ come here to ask you to forgive.” “No,” said the girl stonily. “To beg you to forgive an’ to warn you.” With a strikingly solemn gesture he raised his hand, and swept it through the circle of the heavens. “We may not know when eet strike,” he said slowly. “Ze danger ees there. Eet ees hanging over you an’ over me. Me, I may not escape my fate. Eet ees not matter. But you, so young, so lofely, so brave, so kind to ze poor arteest—I come to warn you, perhaps to safe you.” “Do you know that this is the grave of the man you killed?” she said, her eyes fixed upon his. Simply, and as a child might, the juggler kneeled at the grave. He clasped his hands and raised his face, the eyes closed. With a pitying, yet abhorrent surprise, the girl watched him. His lips moved. She caught a half whispered word, here and there, in the soft southern tongue. In the midst of his prayer the murderer leaped to his feet His muscles stiffened; he was all attention. “Someone come!” he cried. Over the brow of the knoll came Everard Colton. “My God!” he cried, and bounded toward them. Like a flash, the juggler wormed himself into the oak patch, and emerging from the farther side sprinted over the hill and disappeared. “Has he hurt you?” cried the young man. “Helga, my dear! tell me he has not hurt——”