"Yes, and suppose it wasn't!" he whispered almost fiercely. One fact stood out clearly. Spider's post was vacant. It must be filled at once. After locking the door, he slid over to Drew's side. "Spider's gone," he said. "Gone? Where?" Drew did not raise his voice. "Who knows? His place is empty." "You take it," was Drew's instant command. "Take Alice with you. I'll move over where you were. "Gone!" he murmured as Johnny glided away into the darkness. "Spider's gone!" CHAPTER XXIV A STRANGE VICTORY Apparently it is true that, under certain circumstances at least, one can recognize a person by his whisper. Certain it is that Grace Krowl, upon opening her door for a second time that night and upon hearing the whispered message, "Merry Christmas, Grace Krowl," said without a moment's hesitation: "_You are the Whisperer._" "I am." The slim, gray-haired man before her smiled. "May I come in?" She stepped aside. He entered and took a seat. "It was generous of you to trust me," he said. "You will not regret it. "You see--" His eyes strayed about the place. "I fitted these rooms up for myself. Then, for reasons you shall know of later, I was obliged to leave them. When I learned of your presence here, I decided to trust you, and to use you. I-- You have Nida's story?" Grace nodded. "She is the daughter of a very old friend." The little, gray-haired man leaned forward. "Will you tell me the story?" Grace told the story as best she could. "It is as I thought." The Whisperer sprang to his feet. "That man, J. Templeton Semp, is a rascal. He tried to hide his evil deeds by persecuting others. I must go!" He seized his hat. "But who--who are you?" Grace cried. "I--" He smiled. "I am Newton Mills." Then he was gone. What a commotion that declaration would have caused among the watchers in the little gray house on the prairies! Newton Mills, Joyce Mills' father, boon companion of Drew Lane, Tom Howe and Johnny Thompson--Newton Mills come to life and he, of all men, the Whisperer! But no word of this could reach them now. * * * * * * * * It was cold over there by the north window of the little gray house. Before he and Alice established themselves there, Johnny gathered up his heavy coat and wrapped it about the girl. He was very close to her now, this brave and beautiful child of a slain policeman. They were facing death together, these two. And death drew them closer. Bleak night was outside, and out there somewhere in hiding, creeping up behind that barn or the grove where the Captain had played as a boy, or perhaps behind the great cottonwood just before them, death was coming nearer. Johnny was seized with an involuntary shudder. "What is it, my friend Johnny?" The little Canadian's shoulder touched his. "Nothing. Only thinking." He laughed a low, uncertain laugh.