Ahead loomed the mill buildings, velvet-black shadows against a blue-black sky. To his left lay great stacks of manufactured lumber worth many thousand dollars. He could not see them now, but he knew their location, and the thought of all that property going up in smoke made him scowl fiercely, and clench his fists in the darkness. Presently he stopped abruptly as the blackness was pierced by a single gleam of light from the corner of the shadowy building. The next instant he gave a relieved chuckle. It came from the watchman’s shanty, of course. That was where it stood, close by the corner of the main building. Everything was so quiet and peaceful that it seemed futile to go any farther, yet somehow the man wanted to make sure. Finally he decided to gain this end by giving the watchman a tip about the gate. Crossing the open space, he stepped to the window, and peered through the dingy glass. The shack seemed empty; the lighted lantern stood on a rough table from which a straight deal chair was pushed back. Yet, in spite of this, Curly could not be quite certain, so he reached for the latch and thrust the door open. It was not empty. Some one--something was there, a huddled mass lying face down in the corner. With a quick gasp of horror and alarm, Curly straightened and whirled round. Too late! Something heavy struck his head and pitched him, dazed, against the wall of the shanty. He threw out both hands toward the shadows he could barely see, and from his lips came a hoarse cry of mingled pain and fury. A second blow beat through his guard, and stretched him senseless on the ground. The coming around seemed to Curly merely a matter of seconds; really it must have been much longer. When he recovered enough of his senses to make mental notes he discovered that he was lying flat on the sawdust-covered floor near a big circular saw that gleamed like burnished silver. He was bound round and round with ropes, unable to move hand or foot. A lighted lantern made a bright spot in the intense gloom, dimly revealing above him the heavy beams and rafters of the mill. After a little he saw, sitting on the other side of the lantern, a man who gazed steadily at him, and whose face, even in the shadows, seemed familiar. A moment later he realized that the man was John Joyce. The discovery was not a pleasant one. Joyce and he had been enemies for a considerable time, owing mainly to the fact that both were paying attentions to a certain young woman who showed decided partiality for Kollock. In a moment of passion Joyce had sworn to “get” Curly, and the latter had jeered at him. He did not jeer now. The best he could do was to summon a forced smile. “You’ll grin out o’ the other side of your mouth afore I git done with you, you spyin’ scum,” observed the red-haired individual acrimoniously. “What are you doin’ here?” “None o’ your business!” retorted Kollock promptly. “Where’s Bill?”