It was dark when, having returned, he dismounted and swung the saddle from the horse to its tree. Familiar details kept him a long while, his hands were steady but slow, automatic in movement. He went in through the kitchen past Ettie to his room, and after a little he re-wrapped the revolver and laid it back in its accustomed place. Supper, in spite of Lucy's sharp comment, was set by the stove, and Ettie was solicitous of his every possible need. He ate methodically what was offered, and afterward filled and lit his pipe. It soon went out. Once, on the porch, he leaned toward Lucy and awkwardly touched her shoulder. X Wilmer came. He was late, and Lucy said wearily, “I've got a headache to-night. Do you mind if we stay out here in the cool?” He didn't, and his confident familiar planning took the place of Martin Eckles' more exciting narratives. The next day, past noon, the proprietor of the Greenstream hotel left an excited group of men to stop Calvin as he drove in from Sugarloaf Valley. He cried: “Eckles has been shot and killed. First they found the horse and buggy by the road, and then Martin Eckles. He had fallen out. One bullet did it.” “That's too bad,” Calvin replied evenly. “Lawlessness ought to be put down.” He had known Solon Entreken all his life. The level gaze of two men encountered and held. Then: “I'll never say anything against that,” the other pronounced. “It's mighty strange who could have shot Eckles and got clear away. That's what he did, in spite of hell and the sheriff.” Turning, after inevitable exclamations, toward home, Calvin found Lucy sitting moodily on the porch. “I've got a right ugly piece of news,” he told her, masking the painful interest with which he followed her expression. “Martin Eckles was killed yesterday; shot out of the buggy.” She grew pale, her breast rose in a sudden gasp and her hands were clenched. “Oh!” she whispered, horrified. But there was nothing in her manner beyond the natural detestation of such brutality; nothing, he saw, hidden. “He wanted me to go away with him,” she swept on; “and get married in Stanwick. Martin wanted me to see the world. He said I ought to, and not stay here all my life.” The misery that settled over her, the hopelessness dulling her youth filled him with a passionate resentment at the fate that made her what she was and seemingly condemned her to eternal denial. His love for her--Lucy, Hannah, Hannah, Lucy--was intolerably keen. He went to her, bending with a riven hand on the arm of her chair. “Do you want Wilmer?” he demanded. “Do you love him truly? Is he enough?”