“They, the powers that be,” he panted, “know where the culprit—the real culprit—is, and I’ll take care of my end of it—all right, all right.” In his exhilaration it never occurred to him that he had revealed the whereabouts of the murderer of Henry Merrick and might, technically, be entitled to the reward. He was, at least, the means of exposing the ultimate sequel of that old crime. But he did think of the—thing out there on the river, lying face upward. And he could not repress a certain measure of pity when he thought of those days of wistful waiting; waiting for the drought to bring the ghost of old West Hurley once again to light. But these were not pleasant thoughts for a lonely wayfarer at night. So he thought of Mr. Fairgreaves, the courtly, the magnificent Mr. Fairgreaves. Well, he would see them all in the morning.... It was midnight when he reached West Hurley and he was not yet tired. He realized how futile was his steady, rapid stride. He could not sleep when he reached the cottage. And he could not see any one before morning. Why hurry? He conquered his nerves and resolved not to hurry. While West Hurley slept, Tom walked down to the shore of the reservoir. The moon shone upon it and the shimmering area of the vast storage lake looked like a golden island. Not a sound was there. If the water was low, he could see no sign of it on the near shore. Somewhere under that water, in old ruined masonry, was a box with valuable papers. It seemed preposterously romantic—like buried treasure. And a poor stricken wretch with the stigma of old crime upon him had waited and waited for the stubborn water to subside—and had died waiting. Three deaths so far—and sorrow and homelessness. And folks away off in the great city of New York turning on their faucets, and watering their lawns, and putting out their fires with this same water, and never thinking, never knowing.... CHAPTER XXXVII THE BRIGHT MORN The long tramp up the mountain proved to Tom that he was weary. It seemed as if he would never reach Mead’s. Oh, for Mead’s! Then he would know that another hour’s climbing would bring him to the summit. No more landmarks to watch for, just the unbroken stretch of woods road, up, up, up.... He entered the cottage like a thief in the night and was soon stretched upon his ugly little iron couch. But he was too tired and excited to sleep. His knees ached. He lay listening to the safety cables clanking in the wind. Far off in the woods he could hear the call of a wildcat. And the cheery little crickets nearby beguiled him with their soothing orchestra. A katydid soloist entertained him. Well, one thing he would do, he would arouse Anson Dyker—Whalen—out of that blamed sarcastic calm of his. Oh yes, he would do that. He had the ammunition.