But Colter, without emotion, with a murmured apology for having intruded, turned to go. "Perhaps I was mistaken," he said, his face and voice controlled as usual. He had the usual and somewhat helpless courtesy of one unable to fight with another man's weapons of prestige and tradition. But on the riven, sorrow-lined face was an expression of forbearance and pure masculine sweetness such as only fine habits and lofty associations can create. He held out his hand. "Thank you for giving me your time," he said gravely. Friar Tuck came nosing along the ground, following up some poem of scent of which he had begun the first verse at five A. M. Shipman, his hand reaching out for the dog's devoted head, dug deep into the heavy neck fur. Something on the lawyer's face was torn and of queer struggle. He stood there tousling the dog, letting his own body be half swayed this way and that by the slight playful fracas. Suddenly the dark-browed lawyer looked up at the retreating figure. He scowled horribly. "Damn it!" he called out explosively, "damn it! Stay where you are!" At the other's surprised pause, his look of inquiry, Shipman strode forward. He held out his own hand. "Shake." He made the strange awkward picture of ultimate manhood, of the true warrior type who vanquishes himself before any other enemy. The man who will not stand out against the assault of a finer soul. "Colter," said the lawyer sharply, "I'm an ass, a cad, and you are a gentleman." At the slight quick color on the other's face, Shipman stumbled doggedly on. "Yes, sir, I'll be hanged if I can believe that about the amnesia. I never saw any and I never had any, and I haven't got in all the evidence yet, but I know one thing. You are a gentleman--curse it!" said the lawyer standing there. "If you mustn't think me a yellow dog--now," said Shipman, standing straight, his professional manner returning, his hands on Tuck's neck, "I've been observing something and remembering some things and I can't help wondering----" There was very little answering interest in the other's face. The wall was still between them, and Colter, some idea driving him, was for getting away. Seeing this, the lawyer, with an inevitable boyish sense of coup, hastily pulled a wallet from the pocket of his coat lying on a log. Taking a long newspaper clipping from it, he placed it before the other's eyes. "Do you know that face?" he asked eagerly. There was a cut of a man's head in the article. Colter gravely took the clipping. Then, as he read the headline, he seemed to shrink. His intense blue eyes in awful inquiry went to Shipman's.