Early in the morning he went down into the deserted kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. He had never before seen the kitchen quiet and deserted. A holy calm pervaded it, and it seemed unnatural not to hear the clatter of dishes, the vocal accompaniment by Miranda, and the emphatic voice of Audry edifying her with her theories and conclusions. The kitchen was not kitchen without Audry in the full swing of debate. It seemed good to be out in the fresh, early morning. He felt no ill effects of his long tramp except that his knees ached. He was not going to run the chance of missing Whalen by waiting for breakfast. Besides, he wished to see Whalen before he saw any one else. He would rouse him, he would make him sit up and take notice.... He strolled down the mountainside a few yards and sat on a discarded line-pole and waited. He watched the much praised early bird and noted the unhappy fate of the early worm. Luck was with him for after a little while Whalen came down the road alone. So much had transpired in Tom’s mind that it seemed to him that he had not seen Whalen for weeks. He was carrying his axe and smoking a pipe. He looked very peasant-like in the early morning, picturesque in his canvas smock. He had a kind of easy efficiency about him, a kind of unobtrusive reserve force of experience and intelligence and power. “Back again?” he greeted. “Where’s the legitt?” Tom asked. “Getting his suit pressed,” said Whalen. “Would—will—do you mind stopping? I want to speak to you.” Whalen stopped, leaned against a tree. Tom unconsciously paid him the compliment of being perturbed and not sure of himself. It was always so when he talked to Whalen. “I—I—Ned, I know who you are.” “Yes?” said the other. “Don’t be—I know you’re Anson Dyker.” “I thought you knew,” said Whalen quietly. “_You—thought—I—knew?_” “Eh, huh.” All the wind was out of Tom’s sails. “What do you mean?” he ejaculated. “Weren’t you afraid I’d go and tell?” “No.” Followed a pause. Whalen was perfectly calm. “You mean to tell me you weren’t afraid?” Tom demanded in amazement. “You didn’t think I’d tell?” Whalen puffed his pipe. “I _knew_ you wouldn’t,” he said. “Well—I’ll—be—. Is there anything you don’t know?” “I didn’t have to know much to know that.” Followed another pause. “Thanks,” said Tom, his voice trembling. “I—_thanks_.” “Not at all,” said Whalen. Here was an anti-climax. It left Tom with eyes glistening. Whalen just leaned against the tree puffing his pipe. But Tom rose to the occasion. “Well then, I’ve got another one for you,” he said. “I’ve got two more shots. I found the murderer of Henry Merrick and I took his confession to the police. They’ll have to squash the indictment against you, or quash it, or whatever they do. The man is dead. It was—you knew him—it was Ganley.” Now Whalen looked straight into Tom’s eyes with inquiry, incredulity.