“The house is near the road, madam,” said the butler. “And there are so many trees and bushes. Last summer two of them hid here, and the keepers--there was a fight.” The man glanced at Keep. Fred touched his wife on the arm. “It's time to dress for dinner, Win,” he said. “And what are you going to do?” demanded Winnie. “I'm going to finish this cigar first. It doesn't take me long to change.” He turned to the butler. “And I'll have a cocktail, too I'll have it out here.” The servant left them, but in the French window that opened from the terrace to the library Mrs. Keep lingered irresolutely. “Fred,” she begged, “you--you're not going to poke around in the bushes, are you?--just because you think I'm frightened?” Her husband laughed at her. “I certainly am NOT!” he said. “And you're not frightened, either. Go in. I'll be with you in a minute.” But the girl hesitated. Still shattering the silence of the night the siren shrieked relentlessly; it seemed to be at their very door, to beat and buffet the window-panes. The bride shivered and held her fingers to her ears. “Why don't they stop it!” she whispered. “Why don't they give him a chance!” When she had gone, Fred pulled one of the wicker chairs to the edge of the terrace, and, leaning forward with his chin in his hands, sat staring down at the lake. The moon had cleared the tops of the trees, had blotted the lawns with black, rigid squares, had disguised the hedges with wavering shadows. Somewhere near at hand a criminal--a murderer, burglar, thug--was at large, and the voice of the prison he had tricked still bellowed in rage, in amazement, still clamored not only for his person but perhaps for his life. The whole countryside heard it: the farmers bedding down their cattle for the night; the guests of the Briar Cliff Inn, dining under red candle shades; the joy riders from the city, racing their cars along the Albany road. It woke the echoes of Sleepy Hollow. It crossed the Hudson. The granite walls of the Palisades flung it back against the granite walls of the prison. Whichever way the convict turned, it hunted him, reaching for him, pointing him out--stirring in the heart of each who heard it the lust of the hunter, which never is so cruel as when the hunted thing is a man. “Find him!” shrieked the siren. “Find him! He's there, behind your hedge! He's kneeling by the stone wall. THAT'S he running in the moonlight. THAT'S he crawling through the dead leaves! Stop him! Drag him down! He's mine! Mine!”