The counterfeiter, first concealing his green eye-shade behind one of the screens, switched off the electric light, and moving over to the window drew back the black cloth and concealed its presence by tucking it in a crevice in the log wall. A second later he was outside the cabin, and the faint click of the spring lock as he closed the door assured him that the latch had caught. He was inspecting the lock which chemicals had made old and dilapidated in appearance when a shadow obscured the moonlight shining on the door. The counterfeiter’s hand closed over the butt of a revolver inside his overcoat pocket, but before he caught sight of the newcomer a subdued but familiar voice reassured him, and his chilled blood coursed through his veins. “I’se late, but I’se hyar, sah.” “So I see, Cato, but come out of the moonlight.” And he pulled the old servant into the shelter of the woods. “What news?” “Ain’t none,” tersely; the climb up the hillside had been both steep and hard, and the old negro was short of breath. The stillness remained unbroken for several minutes except for the hoot of a screech owl, at which the negro jumped nervously, then seeing that his companion had started down the hillside he made what speed he could after him. They were skirting the hedge which marked the southern boundary of Thornedale when a hand was laid on Cato’s shoulder. “Go home, Cato,” directed the counterfeiter. “Don’t wait for me tonight, I’ll be along presently.” “Yessir,” promised Cato, peering cautiously at him. “Yo’ am sure--” An impatient nod checked Cato, and he thankfully withdrew, making his way to Thornedale with infinite caution. The counterfeiter watched him until he was lost from sight in the grove of trees about the house, then turned his attention to the Porter mansion. But his wary progress in that direction was checked by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, and he had but time to sink down behind the friendly hedge when a figure loomed ahead silhouetted against the skyline in the moonlight. * * * * * “Eleven, twelve,” chimed the hall clock, and the sound carried through the open door of Craig Porter’s bedroom to Dr. Alan Noyes sitting by the paralytic’s bedside. Noyes looked up and rose as Vera Deane came over to the bed. “Mr. Porter responds quickly to medicine,” he said, keeping his voice low-pitched. “And he has at last fallen asleep. I think we may safely believe that his relapse of this afternoon was but temporary.” “Thank God for that--his poor mother!” Vera spoke with deep feeling. “I am afraid she will be our next patient, doctor.”