We learned about the local highschool football

Weposed in front of the fifteen-foot-tall statue of Superman at the center of Metropolis. Weheard about all the young people who were moving to the big cities becausemanufacturing and coal-mining jobs were disappearing. We learned about the local highschool football teams’ prospects for the coming season, and the vast distances veteranshad to drive in order to reach the closest VA facility. We met women who had beenmissionaries in Kenya and greeted me in Swahili, and farmers who tracked the financialpages of the Wall Street Journal before setting out on their tractors. Several times a day,I pointed out to Dan the number of men we met sporting white linen slacks or silkHawaiian shirts. In the small dining room of a Democratic party official in Du Quoin, Iasked the local state’s attorney about crime trends in his largely rural, almost uniformlywhite county, expecting him to mention joy-riding sprees or folks hunting out of season. 　　“The Gangster Disciples,” he said, munching on a carrot. “We’ve got an all-whitebranch down here—kids without jobs, selling dope and speed.” 　　By the end of the week, I was sorry to leave. Not simply because I had made so manynew friends, but because in the faces of all the men and women I’d met I had recognizedpieces of myself. In them I saw my grandfather’s openness, my grandmother’s matter-of-factness, my mother’s kindness. The fried chicken, the potato salad, the grape halvesin the Jell-O mold—all of it felt familiar. 　　It’s that sense of familiarity that strikes me wherever I travel across Illinois. I feel itwhen I’m sitting down at a diner on Chicago’s West Side. I feel it as I watch Latinomen play soccer while their families cheer them on in a park in Pilsen. I feel it when I’mattending an Indian wedding in one of Chicago’s northern suburbs. 　　Not so far beneath the surface, I think, we are becoming more, not less, alike. 　　I don’t mean to exaggerate here, to suggest that the pollsters are wrong and that ourdifferences—racial, religious, regional, or economic—are somehow trivial. In Illinois,as is true everywhere, abortion vexes. In certain parts of the state, the mention of guncontrol constitutes sacrilege. Attitudes about everything from the income tax to sex onTV diverge wildly from place to place.

and I were not yet parents

Chicago may possess all the big-city sophistication of L.A. or New York, butgeographically and culturally, the southern end of Illinois is closer to Little Rock orLouisville, and large swaths of the state are considered, in modern political parlance, adeep shade of red. 　　I first traveled through southern Illinois in 1997. It was the summer after my first termin the Illinois legislature, and Michelle and I were not yet parents. With sessionadjourned, no law school classes to teach, and Michelle busy with work of her own, Iconvinced my legislative aide, Dan Shomon, to toss a map and some golf clubs in thecar and tool around the state for a week. Dan had been both a UPI reporter and a fieldcoordinator for several downstate campaigns, so he knew the territory pretty well. Butas the date of our departure approached, it became apparent that he wasn’t quite surehow I would be received in the counties we were planning to visit. Four times hereminded me how to pack—just khakis and polo shirts, he said; no fancy linen trousersor silk shirts. I assured him that I didn’t own any linens or silks. On the drive down, westopped at a TGI Friday’s and I ordered a cheeseburger. When the waitress brought thefood I asked her if she had any Dijon mustard. Dan shook his head. 　　“He doesn’t want Dijon,” he insisted, waving the waitress off. “Here”—he shoved ayellow bottle of French’s mustard in my direction—“here’s some mustard right here.” 　　The waitress looked confused. “We got Dijon if you want it,” she said to me. 　　I smiled. “That would be great, thanks.” As the waitress walked away, I leaned over toDan and whispered that I didn’t think there were any photographers around. 　　And so we traveled, stopping once a day to play a round of golf in the sweltering heat,driving past miles of cornfields and thick forests of ash trees and oak trees andshimmering lakes lined with stumps and reeds, through big towns like Carbondale andMount Vernon, replete with strip malls and Wal-Marts, and tiny towns like Sparta andPinckneyville, many of them with brick courthouses at the center of town, their mainstreets barely hanging on with every other store closed, the occasional roadside vendorsselling fresh peaches or corn, or in the case of one couple I saw, “Good Deals on Gunsand Swords.” 　　We stopped in a coffee shop to eat pie and swap jokes with the mayor of Chester.

I say this not because

I say this not because I am seduced by the proximity to power. I see my invitations tothe White House for what they are—exercises in common political courtesy—and ammindful of how quickly the long knives can come out when the Administration’s agendais threatened in any serious way. Moreover, whenever I write a letter to a family whohas lost a loved one in Iraq, or read an email from a constituent who has dropped out ofcollege because her student aid has been cut, I’m reminded that the actions of those inpower have enormous consequences—a price that they themselves almost never have topay. 　　It is to say that after all the trappings of office—the titles, the staff, the securitydetails—are stripped away, I find the President and those who surround him to be prettymuch like everybody else, possessed of the same mix of virtues and vices, insecuritiesand long-buried injuries, as the rest of us. No matter how wrongheaded I might considertheir policies to be—and no matter how much I might insist that they be heldaccountable for the results of such policies—I still find it possible, in talking to thesemen and women, to understand their motives, and to recognize in them values I share. 　　This is not an easy posture to maintain in Washington. The stakes involved inWashington policy debates are often so high—whether we send our young men andwomen to war; whether we allow stem cell research to go forward—that even smalldifferences in perspective are magnified. The demands of party loyalty, the imperativeof campaigns, and the amplification of conflict by the media all contribute to anatmosphere of suspicion. Moreover, most people who serve in Washington have beentrained either as lawyers or as political operatives—professions that tend to place apremium on winning arguments rather than solving problems. I can see how, after acertain amount of time in the capital, it becomes tempting to assume that those whodisagree with you have fundamentally different values—indeed, that they are motivatedby bad faith, and perhaps are bad people. 　　Outside of Washington, though, America feels less deeply divided. Illinois, forexample, is no longer considered a bellwether state. For more than a decade now, it’sbecome more and more Democratic, partly because of increased urbanization, partlybecause the social conservatism of today’s GOP doesn’t wear well in the Land ofLincoln. But Illinois remains a microcosm of the country, a rough stew of North andSouth, East and West, urban and rural, black, white, and everything in between.

I gotta get going

He nodded. “You’ve got a bright future,” he said. “Very bright. But I’ve been in thistown awhile and, let me tell you, it can be tough. When you get a lot of attention likeyou’ve been getting, people start gunnin’ for ya. And it won’t necessarily just becoming from my side, you understand. From yours, too. Everybody’ll be waiting foryou to slip, know what I mean? So watch yourself.” 　　“Thanks for the advice, Mr. President.” 　　“All right. I gotta get going. You know, me and you got something in common.” 　　“What’s that?” 　　“We both had to debate Alan Keyes. That guy’s a piece of work, isn’t he?” 　　I laughed, and as we walked to the door I told him a few stories from the campaign. Itwasn’t until he had left the room that I realized I had briefly put my arm over hisshoulder as we talked—an unconscious habit of mine, but one that I suspected mighthave made many of my friends, not to mention the Secret Service agents in the room,more than a little uneasy. 　　SINCE MY ARRIVAL in the Senate, I’ve been a steady and occasionally fierce criticof Bush Administration policies. I consider the Bush tax cuts for the wealthy to be bothfiscally irresponsible and morally troubling. I have criticized the Administration forlacking a meaningful health-care agenda, a serious energy policy, or a strategy formaking America more competitive. Back in 2002, just before announcing my Senatecampaign, I made a speech at one of the first antiwar rallies in Chicago in which Iquestioned the Administration’s evidence of weapons of mass destruction and suggestedthat an invasion of Iraq would prove to be a costly error. Nothing in the recent newscoming out of Baghdad or the rest of the Middle East has dispelled these views. 　　So Democratic audiences are often surprised when I tell them that I don’t considerGeorge Bush a bad man, and that I assume he and members of his Administration aretrying to do what they think is best for the country.

At sixteen hundred hours on the dot

The inside of the White House doesn’t have the luminous quality that you might expectfrom TV or film; it seems well kept but worn, a big old house that one imagines mightbe a bit drafty on cold winter nights. Still, as I stood in the foyer and let my eyes wanderdown the corridors, it was impossible to forget the history that had been made there—John and Bobby Kennedy huddling over the Cuban missile crisis; FDR making last-minute changes to a radio address; Lincoln alone, pacing the halls and shouldering theweight of a nation. (It wasn’t until several months later that I would get to see theLincoln Bedroom, a modest space with antique furniture, a four-poster bed, an originalcopy of the Gettysburg Address discreetly displayed under glass—and a big flat-screenTV set atop one of the desks. Who, I wondered, flipped on SportsCenter while spendingthe night in the Lincoln Bedroom?)I was greeted immediately by a member of the White House’s legislative staff and ledinto the Gold Room, where most of the incoming House and Senate members hadalready gathered. At sixteen hundred hours on the dot, President Bush was announcedand walked to the podium, looking vigorous and fit, with that jaunty, determined walkthat suggests he’s on a schedule and wants to keep detours to a minimum. For ten or sominutes he spoke to the room, making a few jokes, calling for the country to cometogether, before inviting us to the other end of the White House for refreshments and apicture with him and the First Lady. 　　I happened to be starving at that moment, so while most of the other legislators startedlining up for their photographs, I headed for the buffet. As I munched on hors d’oeuvresand engaged in small talk with a handful of House members, I recalled my previous twoencounters with the President, the first a brief congratulatory call after the election, thesecond a small White House breakfast with me and the other incoming senators. Bothtimes I had found the President to be a likable man, shrewd and disciplined but with thesame straightforward manner that had helped him win two elections; you could easilyimagine him owning the local car dealership down the street, coaching Little League,and grilling in his backyard—the kind of guy who would make for good company solong as the conversation revolved around sports and the kids. 　　There had been a moment during the breakfast meeting, though, after the backslappingand the small talk and when all of us were seated, with Vice President Cheney eating hiseggs Benedict impassively and Karl Rove at the far end of the table discreetly checkinghis BlackBerry, that I witnessed a different side of the man. The President had begun todiscuss his second-term agenda, mostly a reiteration of his campaign talking points—the importance of staying the course in Iraq and renewing the Patriot Act, the need toreform Social Security and overhaul the tax system, his determination to get an up-or-down vote on his judicial appointees—when suddenly it felt as if somebody in a backroom had flipped a switch. The President’s eyes became fixed; his voice took on theagitated, rapid tone of someone neither accustomed to nor welcoming interruption; hiseasy affability was replaced by an almost messianic certainty. As I watched my mostlyRepublican Senate colleagues hang on his every word, I was reminded of the dangerousisolation that power can bring, and appreciated the Founders’ wisdom in designing asystem to keep power in check.

who eyed her with a mixture of

   Mac and Charlie immediately began to talk as hard as their tongues could wag, bringing up all sorts of pleasant subjects so successfully that peals of laughter made passersby look after the merry load with sympathetic smiles.    An avalanche of aunts fell upon Rose as soon as she reached home, and for the rest of the day the old house buzzed like a beehive. Evening found the whole tribe collected in the drawing rooms, with the exception of Aunt Peace, whose place was empty now.    Naturally enough, the elders settled into one group after a while, and the young fellows clustered about the girls like butterflies around two attractive flowers. Dr. Alec was the central figure in one room and Rose in the other, for the little girl, whom they had all loved and petted, had bloomed into a woman, and two years of absence had wrought a curious change in the relative positions of the cousins, especially the three elder ones, who eyed her with a mixture of boyish affection and manly admiration that was both new and pleasant.    Something sweet yet spirited about her charmed them and piqued their curiosity, for she was not quite like other girls, and rather startled them now and then by some independent little speech or act which made them look at one another with a sly smile, as if reminded that Rose was "Uncle's girl."    Let us listen, as in duty bound, to what the elders are saying first, for they are already building castles in air for the boys and girls to inhabit.    "Dear child how nice it is to see her safely back, so well and happy and like her sweet little self!" said Aunt Plenty, folding her hands as if giving thanks for a great happiness.    "I shouldn't wonder if you found that you'd brought a firebrand into the family, Alec. Two, in fact, for Phebe is a fine girl, and the lads have found it out already if I'm not mistaken," added Uncle Mac, with a nod toward the other room.    All eyes followed his, and a highly suggestive tableau presented itself to the paternal and maternal audience in the back parlor.    Rose and Phebe, sitting side by side on the sofa, had evidently assumed at once the places which they were destined to fill by right of youth, sex, and beauty, for Phebe had long since ceased to be the maid and become the friend, and Rose meant to have that fact established at once.

funny to imagine you living on

   "That is the latest hobby, then? Your letters have amused us immensely, for each one had a new theory or experiment, and the latest was always the best. I thought Uncle would have died of laughter over the vegetarian mania it was so funny to imagine you living on bread and milk, baked apples, and potatoes roasted in your own fire," continued Rose, changing the subject again.    "This old chap was the laughingstock of his class. They called him Don Quixote, and the way he went at windmills of all sorts was a sight to see," put in Charlie, evidently feeling that Mac had been patted on the head quite as much as was good for him.    "But in spite of that the Don got through college with all the honors. Oh, wasn't I proud when Aunt Jane wrote to us about it and didn't she rejoice that her boy kept at the head of his class and won the medal!" cried Rose, shaking Mac by both hands in a way that caused Charlie to wish "the old chap" had been left behind with Dr. Alec.    "Oh, come, that's all Mother's nonsense. I began earlier than the other fellows and liked it better, so I don't deserve any praise. Prince is right, though. I did make a regular jack of myself, but on the whole I'm not sure that my wild oats weren't better than some I've seen sowed. Anyway, they didn't cost much, and I'm none the worse for them," said Mac placidly.    "I know what 'wild oats' means. I heard Uncle Mac say Charlie was sowing 'em too fast, and I asked Mama, so she told me. And I know that he was suspelled or expended, I don't remember which, but it was something bad, and Aunt Clara cried," added Jamie all in one breath, for he possessed a fatal gift of making malapropos remarks, which caused him to be a terror to his family.    "Do you want to go on the box again?" demanded Prince with a warning frown.    "No, I don't."    "Then hold your tongue."    "Well, Mac needn't kick me, for I was only..." began the culprit, innocently trying to make a bad matter worse.    "That will do," interrupted Charlie sternly, and James subsided, a crushed boy, consoling himself with Rose's new watch for the indignities he suffered at the hands of the "old fellows" as he vengefully called his elders.

I shall not mind a bit about your

   "You've both grown so pretty, I can't decide which I like best. Phebe is the biggest and brightest-looking, and I was always fond of Phebe, but somehow you are so kind of sweet and precious, I really think I must hug you again," and the small youth did it tempestuously.    "If you love me best, I shall not mind a bit about your thinking Phebe the handsomest, because she is. Isn't she, boys?" asked Rose, with a mischievous look at the gentlemen opposite, whose faces expressed a respectful admiration which much amused her.    "I'm so dazzled by the brilliancy and beauty that has suddenly burst upon me, I have no words to express my emotions," answered Charlie, gallantly dodging the dangerous question.    "I can't say yet, for I have not had time to look at anyone. I will now, if you don't mind." And, to the great amusement of the rest, Mac gravely adjusted his eyeglasses and took an observation.      "Well?" said Phebe, smiling and blushing under his honest stare, yet seeming not to resent it as she did the lordly sort of approval which made her answer the glance of Charlie's audacious blue eyes with a flash of her black ones.    "I think if you were my sister, I should be very proud of you, because your face shows what I admire more than its beauty truth and courage, Phebe," answered Mac with a little bow full of such genuine respect that surprise and pleasure brought a sudden dew to quench the fire of the girl's eyes and soothe the sensitive pride of the girl's heart.    Rose clapped her hands just as she used to do when anything delighted her, and beamed at Mac approvingly as she said:    "Now that's a criticism worth having, and we are much obliged. I was sure you'd admire my Phebe when you knew her, but I didn't believe you would be wise enough to see it at once, and you have gone up many pegs in my estimation, I assure you."    "I was always fond of mineralogy you remember, and I've been tapping round a good deal lately, so I've learned to know precious metals when I see them," Mac said with his shrewd smile.

staring with all his might at

   "Bless her dear heart, she's bonnier than ever! Looks like a Madonna doesn't she? with that blue cloak round her, and her bright hair flying in the wind!" said Charlie excitedly as they watched the group upon the deck with eager eyes.    "Madonnas don't wear hats like that. Rose hasn't changed much, but Phebe has. Why, she's a regular beauty!" answered Archie, staring with all his might at the dark-eyed young woman with the brilliant color and glossy black braids shining in the sun.    "Dear old Uncle! Doesn't it seem good to have him back?" was all Mac said, but he was not looking at "dear old uncle" as he made the fervent remark, for he saw only the slender blond girl nearby and stretched out his hands to meet hers, forgetful of the green water tumbling between them.    During the confusion that reigned for a moment as the steamer settled to her moorings, Rose looked down into the four faces upturned to hers and seemed to read in them something that both pleased and pained her. It was only a glance, and her own eyes were full, but through the mist of happy tears she received the impression that Archie was about the same, that Mac had decidedly improved, and that something was amiss with Charlie. There was no time for observation, however, for in a moment the shoreward rush began, and before she could grasp her traveling bag, Jamie was clinging to her like an ecstatic young bear. She was with difficulty released from his embrace to fall into the gentler ones of the elder cousins, who took advantage of the general excitement to welcome both blooming girls with affectionate impartiality. Then the wanderers were borne ashore in a triumphal procession, while Jamie danced rapturous jigs before them even on the gangway.    Archie remained to help his uncle get the luggage through the Custom House, and the others escorted the damsels home. No sooner were they shut up in a carriage, however, than a new and curious constraint seemed to fall upon the young people, for they realized, all at once, that their former playmates were men and women now. Fortunately, Jamie was quite free from this feeling of restraint and, sitting bodkinwise between the ladies, took all sorts of liberties with them and their belongings.    "Well, my mannikin, what do you think of us?" asked Rose, to break an awkward pause.

waiting for their cousin

   THREE young men stood together on a wharf one bright October day awaiting the arrival of an ocean steamer with an impatience which found a vent in lively skirmishes with a small lad, who pervaded the premises like a will-o'-the-wisp and afforded much amusement to the other groups assembled there.    "They are the Campbells, waiting for their cousin, who has been abroad several years with her uncle, the doctor," whispered one lady to another as the handsomest of the young men touched his hat to her as he passed, lugging the boy, whom he had just rescued from a little expedition down among the piles.    "Which is that?" asked the stranger.    "Prince Charlie, as he's called a fine fellow, the most promising of the seven, but a little fast, people say," answered the first speaker with a shake of the head.    "Are the others his brothers?"    "No, cousins. The elder is Archie, a most exemplary young man. He has just gone into business with the merchant uncle and bids fair to be an honor to his family. The other, with the eyeglasses and no gloves, is Mac, the odd one, just out of college."    "And the boy?"    "Oh, he is Jamie, the youngest brother of Archibald, and the pet of the whole family. Mercy on us he'll be in if they don't hold on to him!"    The ladies' chat came to a sudden end just there, for by the time Jamie had been fished out of a hogshead, the steamer hove in sight and everything else was forgotten. As it swung slowly around to enter the dock, a boyish voice shouted, "There she is! I see her and Uncle and Phebe! Hooray for Cousin Rose!" And three small cheers were given with a will by Jamie as he stood on a post waving his arms like a windmill while his brother held onto the tail of his jacket.    Yes, there they were Uncle Alec swinging his hat like a boy, with Phebe smiling and nodding on one side and Rose kissing both hands delightedly on the other as she recognized familiar faces and heard familiar voices welcoming her home.

it they had hoisted their colors

It was now half-past seven. The sun had disappeared twenty minutes ago behind Granite House. Consequently the Eastern horizon was becoming obscured. In the meanwhile the brig continued to advance towards Union Bay. She was now not more than two miles off, and exactly opposite the plateau of Prospect Heights, for after having tacked off Claw Cape, she had drifted towards the north in the current of the rising tide. One might have said that at this distance she had already entered the vast bay, for a straight line drawn from Claw Cape to Cape Mandible would have rested on her starboard quarter. Was the brig about to penetrate far into the bay? That was the first question. When once in the bay, would she anchor there? That was the second. Would she not content herself with only surveying the coast, and stand out to sea again without landing her crew? They would know this in an hour. The colonists could do nothing but wait. Cyrus Harding had not seen the suspected vessel hoist the black flag without deep anxiety. Was it not a direct menace against the work which he and his companions had till now conducted so successfully? Had these pirates--for the sailors of the brig could be nothing else--already visited the island, since on approaching it they had hoisted their colors. Had they formerly invaded it, so that certain unaccountable peculiarities might be explained in this way? Did there exist in the as yet unexplored parts some accomplice ready to enter into communication with them? To all these questions which he mentally asked himself, Harding knew not what to reply; but he felt that the safety of the colony could not but be seriously threatened by the arrival of the brig. However, he and his companions were determined to fight to the last gasp. It would have been very important to know if the pirates were numerous and better armed than the colonists. But how was this information to he obtained? Night fell. The new moon had disappeared. Profound darkness enveloped the island and the sea. No light could pierce through the heavy piles of clouds on the horizon. The wind had died away completely with the twilight. Not a leaf rustled on the trees, not a ripple murmured on the shore. Nothing could be seen of the ship, all her lights being extinguished, and if she was still in sight of the island, her whereabouts could not be discovered. "Well! who knows?" said Pencroft. "Perhaps that cursed craft will stand off during the night, and we shall see nothing of her at daybreak."

While they were thus occupied

"My friends," said Cyrus Harding, "perhaps this vessel only wishes to survey the coast of the island. Perhaps her crew will not land. There is a chance of it. However that may be, we ought to do everything we can to hide our presence here. The windmill on Prospect Heights is too easily seen. Let Ayrton and Neb go and take down the sails. We must also conceal the windows of Granite House with thick branches. All the fires must be extinguished, so that nothing may betray the presence of men on the island." "And our vessel?" said Herbert. "Oh," answered Pencroft, "she is sheltered in Port Balloon, and I defy any of those rascals there to find her!" The engineer's orders were immediately executed. Neb and Ayrton ascended the plateau, and took the necessary precautions to conceal any indication of a settlement. While they were thus occupied, their companions went to the border of Jacamar Wood, and brought back a large quantity of branches and creepers, which would at some distance appear as natural foliage, and thus disguise the windows in the granite cliff. At the same time, the ammunition and guns were placed ready so as to be at hand in case of an unexpected attack. When all these precautions had been taken,-- "My friends," said Harding, and his voice betrayed some emotion, "if the wretches endeavor to seize Lincoln Island, we shall defend it--shall we not?" "Yes, Cyrus," replied the reporter, "and if necessary we will die to defend it!" The engineer extended his hand to his companions, who pressed it warmly. Ayrton remained in his corner, not joining the colonists. Perhaps he, the former convict, still felt himself unworthy to do so! Cyrus Harding understood what was passing in Ayrton's mind, and going to him-- "And you, Ayrton," he asked, "what will you do?" "My duty," answered Ayrton. He then took up his station near the window and gazed through the foliage.

what do we generally meet

Pencroft again brought the brig within the range of the telescope, and could see that she was of between three and four hundred tons burden, wonderfully narrow, well-masted, admirably built, and must be a very rapid sailer. But to what nation did she belong? That was difficult to say. "And yet," added the sailor, "a flag is floating from her peak, but I cannot distinguish the colors of it." "In half an hour we shall be certain about that," answered the reporter. "Besides, it is very evident that the intention of the captain of this ship is to land, and, consequently, if not today, to-morrow at the latest, we shall make his acquaintance." "Never mind!" said Pencroft. "It is best to know whom we have to deal with, and I shall not be sorry to recognize that fellow's colors!" And, while thus speaking, the sailor never left the glass. The day began to fade, and with the day the breeze fell also. The brig's ensign hung in folds, and it became more and more difficult to observe it. "It is not the American flag," said Pencroft from time to time, "nor the English, the red of which could be easily seen, nor the French or German colors, nor the white flag of Russia, nor the yellow of Spain. One would say it was all one color. Let's see: in these seas, what do we generally meet with? The Chilean flag?--but that is tri-color. Brazilian?--it is green. Japanese?--it is yellow and black, while this--" At that moment the breeze blew out the unknown flag. Ayrton seizing the telescope which the sailor had put down, put it to his eye, and in a hoarse voice,-- "The black flag!" he exclaimed. And indeed the somber bunting was floating from the mast of the brig, and they had now good reason for considering her to be a suspicious vessel! Had the engineer, then, been right in his presentiments? Was this a pirate vessel? Did she scour the Pacific, competing with the Malay proas which still infest it? For what had she come to look at the shores of Lincoln Island? Was it to them an unknown island, ready to become a magazine for stolen cargoes? Had she come to find on the coast a sheltered port for the winter months? Was the settlers' honest domain destined to be transformed into an infamous refuge --the headquarters of the piracy of the Pacific? All these ideas instinctively presented themselves to the colonists' imaginations. There was no doubt, besides, of the signification which must be attached to the color of the hoisted flag. It was that of pirates! It was that which the "Duncan" would have carried, had the convicts succeeded in their criminal design! No time was lost before discussing it.

we ought to make known to that vessel

Pencroft, after a minute examination, was able positively to affirm that the vessel was rigged as a brig, and that she was standing obliquely towards the coast, on the starboard tack, under her topsails and top- gallant-sails. This was confirmed by Ayrton. But by continuing in this direction she must soon disappear behind Claw Cape, as the wind was from the southwest, and to watch her it would be then necessary to ascend the height of Washington Bay, near Port Balloon--a provoking circumstance, for it was already five o'clock in the evening, and the twilight would soon make any observation extremely difficult. "What shall we do when night comes on?" asked Gideon Spilett. "Shall we light a fire, so as to signal our presence on the coast?" This was a serious question, and yet, although the engineer still retained some of his presentiments, it was answered in the affirmative. During the night the ship might disappear and leave for ever, and, this ship gone, would another ever return to the waters of Lincoln Island? Who could foresee what the future would then have in store for the colonists? "Yes," said the reporter, "we ought to make known to that vessel, whoever she may be, that the island is inhabited. To neglect the opportunity which is offered to us might be to create everlasting regrets." It was therefore decided that Neb and Pencroft should go to Port Balloon, and that there, at nightfall, they should light an immense fire, the blaze of which would necessarily attract the attention of the brig. But at the moment when Neb and the sailor were preparing to leave Granite House, the vessel suddenly altered her course, and stood directly for Union Bay. The brig was a good sailer, for she approached rapidly. Neb and Pencroft put off their departure, therefore, and the glass was put into Ayrton's hands, that he might ascertain for certain whether the ship was or was not the "Duncan." The Scotch yacht was also rigged as a brig. The question was, whether a chimney could be discerned between the two masts of the vessel, which was now at a distance of only five miles. The horizon was still very clear. The examination was easy, and Ayrton soon let the glass fall again, saying-- "It is not the 'Duncan'! It could not be!"

being so far from land

"No," said he, "no! it cannot be the 'Duncan'!" "Look, Ayrton," then said the engineer, "for it is necessary that we should know beforehand what to expect." Ayrton took the glass and pointed it in the direction indicated. During some minutes he examined the horizon without moving, without uttering a word. Then,-- "It is indeed a vessel," said he, "but I do not think she is the 'Duncan.'" "Why do you not think so?" asked Gideon Spilett. "Because the 'Duncan' is a steam-yacht, and I cannot perceive any trace of smoke either above or near that vessel." "Perhaps she is simply sailing," observed Pencroft. "The wind is favorable for the direction which she appears to be taking, and she may be anxious to economize her coal, being so far from land." "It is possible that you may be right, Mr. Pencroft," answered Ayrton, "and that the vessel has extinguished her fires. We must wait until she is nearer, and then we shall soon know what to expect." So saying, Ayrton sat down in a corner of the room and remained silent. The colonists again discussed the strange ship, but Ayrton took no part in the conversation. All were in such a mood that they found it impossible to continue their work. Gideon Spilett and Pencroft were particularly nervous, going, coming, not able to remain still in one place. Herbert felt more curiosity. Neb alone maintained his usual calm manner. Was not his country that where his master was? As to the engineer, he remained plunged in deep thought, and in his heart feared rather than desired the arrival of the ship. In the meanwhile, the vessel was a little nearer the island. With the aid of the glass, it was ascertained that she was a brig, and not one of those Malay proas, which are generally used by the pirates of the Pacific. It was, therefore, reasonable to believe that the engineer's apprehensions would not be justified, and that the presence of this vessel in the vicinity of the island was fraught with no danger.

of his prowess as a man of pleasure

The tale won the honours of the dinner. It was regarded as truly impressive, and inevitably it led to the general inquiry: what could the highest personages in the empire see to admire in that red-haired Englishwoman? And of course Rivain himself, the handsome homicide, the centre and hero of the fete, was never long out of the conversation. Several of the diners had seen him; one or two knew him and could give amazing details of his prowess as a man of pleasure. Despite his crime, he seemed to be the object of sincere idolatry. It was said positively that a niece of his victim had been promised a front place at the execution. Apropos of this, Sophia gathered, to her intense astonishment and alarm, that the prison was close by and that the execution would take place at the corner of the square itself in which the hotel was situated. Gerald must have known; he had hidden it from her. She regarded him sideways, with distrust. As the dinner finished, Gerald's pose of a calm, disinterested, scientific observer of humanity gradually broke down. He could not maintain it in front of the increasing license of the scene round the table. He was at length somewhat ashamed of having exposed his wife to the view of such an orgy; his restless glance carefully avoided both Sophia and Chirac. The latter, whose unaffected simplicity of interest in the affair had more than anything helped to keep Sophia in countenance, observed the change in Gerald and Sophia's excessive discomfort, and suggested that they should leave the table without waiting for the coffee. Gerald agreed quickly. Thus had Sophia been released from the horror of the dinner. She did not understand how a man so thoughtful and kindly as Chirac--he had bidden her good night with the most distinguished courtesy--could tolerate, much less pleasurably savour, the gluttonous, drunken, and salacious debauchery of the Hotel de Vezelay; but his theory was, so far as she could judge from his imperfect English, that whatever existed might be admitted and examined by serious persons interested in the study of human nature. His face seemed to say: "Why not?" His face seemed to say to Gerald and to herself: "If this incommodes you, what did you come for?"

some of the diners being well dressed

Everything was dirty. But the food was good. Chirac and Gerald were agreed that the food was good, as well as the wine. "Remarquable!" Chirac had said, of the wine. Sophia, however, could neither eat nor drink with relish. She was afraid. The company shocked her by its gestures alone. It was very heterogeneous in appearance, some of the diners being well dressed, approaching elegance, and others shabby. But all the faces, to the youngest, were brutalized, corrupt, and shameless. The juxtaposition of old men and young women was odious to her, especially when those pairs kissed, as they did frequently towards the end of the meal. Happily she was placed between Chirac and Gerald. That situation seemed to shelter her even from the conversation. She would have comprehended nothing of the conversation, had it not been for the presence of a middle-aged Englishman who sat at the opposite end of the table with a youngish, stylish Frenchwoman whom she had seen at Sylvain's on the previous night. The Englishman was evidently under a promise to teach English to the Frenchwoman. He kept translating for her into English, slowly and distinctly, and she would repeat the phrases after him, with strange contortions of the mouth. Thus Sophia gathered that the talk was exclusively about assassinations, executions, criminals, and executioners. Some of the people there made a practice of attending every execution. They were fountains of interesting gossip, and the lions of the meal. There was a woman who could recall the dying words of all the victims of justice for twenty years past. The table roared with hysteric laughter at one of this woman's anecdotes. Sophia learned that she had related how a criminal had said to the priest who was good-naturedly trying to screen the sight of the guillotine from him with his body: "Stand away now, parson. Haven't I paid to see it?" Such was the Englishman's rendering. The wages of the executioners and their assistants were discussed, and differences of opinions led to ferocious arguments. A young and dandiacal fellow told, as a fact which he was ready to vouch for with a pistol, how Cora Pearl, the renowned English courtesan, had through her influence over a prefect of police succeeded in visiting a criminal alone in his cell during the night preceding his execution, and had only quitted him an hour before the final summons.

and he was compelled to carry the bag himself

And Chirac shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate that the situation and the price ought to be accepted philosophically. Gerald gave the driver five francs. He examined the piece and demanded a pourboire. "Oh! Damn!" said Gerald, and, because he had no smaller change, parted with another two francs. "Is any one coming out for this damned valise?" Gerald demanded, like a tyrant whose wrath would presently fall if the populace did not instantly set about minding their p's and q's. But nobody emerged, and he was compelled to carry the bag himself. The hotel was dark and malodorous, and every room seemed to be crowded with giggling groups of drinkers. "We can't both sleep in this bed, surely," said Sophia when, Chirac having remained downstairs, she faced Gerald in a small, mean bedroom. "You don't suppose I shall go to bed, do you?" said Gerald, rather brusquely. "It's for you. We're going to eat now. Look sharp." Chapter 3 An Ambition Satisfied III It was night. She lay in the narrow, crimson-draped bed. The heavy crimson curtains had been drawn across the dirty lace curtains of the window, but the lights of the little square faintly penetrated through chinks into the room. The sounds of the square also penetrated, extraordinarily loud and clear, for the unabated heat had compelled her to leave the window open. She could not sleep. Exhausted though she was, there was no hope of her being able to sleep. Once again she was profoundly depressed. She remembered the dinner with horror. The long, crowded table, with semi-circular ends, in the oppressive and reeking dining-room lighted by oil-lamps! There must have been at least forty people at that table. Most of them ate disgustingly, as noisily as pigs, with the ends of the large coarse napkins tucked in at their necks. All the service was done by the fat woman whom she had seen at the window with Gerald, and a young girl whose demeanour was candidly brazen. Both these creatures were slatterns.

a decent price just because

They were in front of the Hotel de l'Epee. Across the street was a cafe crammed with people. Several carriages stood in front. The Hotel de l'Epee had a reassuring air of mellow respectability, such as Chirac had claimed for it. He had suggested this hotel for Madame Scales because it was not near the place of execution. Gerald had said, "Of course! Of course!" Chirac, who did not mean to go to bed, required no room for himself. The Hotel de l'Epee had one room to offer, at the price of twenty- five francs. Gerald revolted at the attempted imposition. "A nice thing!" he grumbled, "that ordinary travellers can't get a decent room at a decent price just because some one's going to be guillotined to- morrow! We'll try elsewhere!" His features expressed disgust, but Sophia fancied that he was secretly pleased. They swaggered out of the busy stir of the hotel, as those must who, having declined to be swindled, wish to preserve their importance in the face of the world. In the street a cabman solicited them, and filled them with hope by saying that he knew of a hotel that might suit them and would drive them there for five francs. He furiously lashed his horse. The mere fact of being in a swiftly moving carriage which wayfarers had to avoid nimbly, maintained their spirits. They had a near glimpse of the cathedral. The cab halted with a bump, in a small square, in front of a repellent building which bore the sign, 'Hotel de Vezelay.' The horse was bleeding. Gerald instructed Sophia to remain where she was, and he and Chirac went up four stone steps into the hotel. Sophia, stared at by loose crowds that were promenading, gazed about her, and saw that all the windows of the square were open and most of them occupied by people who laughed and chattered. Then there was a shout: Gerald's voice. He had appeared at a window on the second floor of the hotel with Chirac and a very fat woman. Chirac saluted, and Gerald laughed carelessly, and nodded. "It's all right," said Gerald, having descended. "How much do they ask?" Sophia inquired indiscreetly. Gerald hesitated, and looked self-conscious. "Thirty-five francs," he said. "But I've had enough of driving about. It seems we're lucky to get it even at that."

stout man with the hard face of a flourishing scoundrel

And at last, in the great station at Auxerre, it poured out an incredible mass of befouled humanity that spread over everything like an inundation. Sophia was frightened. Gerald left the initiative to Chirac, and Chirac took her arm and led her forward, looking behind him to see that Gerald followed with the valise. Frenzy seemed to reign in Auxerre. The driver of a cab demanded ten francs for transporting them to the Hotel de l'Epee. "Bah!" scornfully exclaimed Chirac, in his quality of experienced Parisian who is not to be exploited by heavy-witted provincials. But the driver of the next cab demanded twelve francs. "Jump in," said Gerald to Sophia. Chirac lifted his eyebrows. At the same moment a tall, stout man with the hard face of a flourishing scoundrel, and a young, pallid girl on his arm, pushed aside both Gerald and Chirac and got into the cab with his companion. Chirac protested, telling him that the cab was already engaged. The usurper scowled and swore, and the young girl laughed boldly. Sophia, shrinking, expected her escort to execute justice heroic and final; but she was disappointed. "Brute!" murmured Chirac, and shrugged his shoulders, as the carriage drove off, leaving them foolish on the kerb. By this time all the other cabs had been seized. They walked to the Hotel de l'Epee, jostled by the crowd, Sophia and Chirac in front, and Gerald following with the valise, whose weight caused him to lean over to the right and his left arm to rise. The avenue was long, straight, and misty with a floating dust. Sophia had a vivid sense of the romantic. They saw towers and spires, and Chirac talked to her slowly and carefully of the cathedral and the famous churches. He said that the stained glass was marvellous, and with much care he catalogued for her all the things she must visit. They crossed a river. She felt as though she was stepping into the middle age. At intervals Gerald changed the valise from hand to hand; obstinately, he would not let Chirac touch it. They struggled upwards, through narrow curving streets. "Voila!" said Chirac.

The floor was covered with fine sand

Pencroft's first care, after unloading the raft, was to render the cave habitable by stopping up all the holes which made it draughty. Sand, stones, twisted branches, wet clay, closed up the galleries open to the south winds. One narrow and winding opening at the side was kept, to lead out the smoke and to make the fire draw. The cave was thus divided into three or four rooms, if such dark dens with which a donkey would scarcely have been contented deserved the name. But they were dry, and there was space to stand upright, at least in the principal room, which occupied the center. The floor was covered with fine sand, and taking all in all they were well pleased with it for want of a better. "Perhaps," said Herbert, while he and Pencroft were working, "our companions have found a superior place to ours." "Very likely," replied the seaman; "but, as we don't know, we must work all the same. Better to have two strings to one's bow than no string at all!" "Oh!" exclaimed Herbert, "how jolly it will be if they were to find Captain Harding and were to bring him back with them!" "Yes, indeed!" said Pencroft, "that was a man of the right sort." "Was!" exclaimed Herbert, "do you despair of ever seeing him again?" "God forbid!" replied the sailor. Their work was soon done, and Pencroft declared himself very well satisfied. "Now," said he, "our friends can come back when they like. They will find a good enough shelter." They now had only to make a fireplace and to prepare the supper--an easy task. Large flat stones were placed on the ground at the opening of the narrow passage which had been kept. This, if the smoke did not take the heat out with it, would be enough to maintain an equal temperature inside. Their wood was stowed away in one of the rooms, and the sailor laid in the fireplace some logs and brushwood. The seaman was busy with this, when Herbert asked him if he had any matches. "Certainly," replied Pencroft, "and I may say happily, for without matches or tinder we should be in a fix." "Still we might get fire as the savages do," replied Herbert, "by rubbing two bits of dry stick one against the other." "All right; try, my boy, and let's see if you can do anything besides exercising your arms." "Well, it's a very simple proceeding, and much used in the islands of the Pacific."

startled a whole flock of these

Pencroft and Herbert examined for some time the country on which they had been cast; but it was difficult to guess after so hasty an inspection what the future had in store for them. They then returned, following the southern crest of the granite platform, bordered by a long fringe of jagged rocks, of the most whimsical shapes. Some hundreds of birds lived there nestled in the holes of the stone; Herbert, jumping over the rocks, startled a whole flock of these winged creatures. "Oh!" cried he, "those are not gulls nor sea-mews!" "What are they then?" asked Pencroft. "Upon my word, one would say they were pigeons!" "Just so, but these are wild or rock pigeons. I recognize them by the double band of black on the wing, by the white tail, and by their slate- colored plumage. But if the rock-pigeon is good to eat, its eggs must be excellent, and we will soon see how many they may have left in their nests!" "We will not give them time to hatch, unless it is in the shape of an omelet!" replied Pencroft merrily. "But what will you make your omelet in?" asked Herbert; "in your hat?" "Well!" replied the sailor, "I am not quite conjuror enough for that; we must come down to eggs in the shell, my boy, and I will undertake to despatch the hardest!" Pencroft and Herbert attentively examined the cavities in the granite, and they really found eggs in some of the hollows. A few dozen being collected, were packed in the sailor's handkerchief, and as the time when the tide would be full was approaching, Pencroft and Herbert began to redescend towards the watercourse. When they arrived there, it was an hour after midday. The tide had already turned. They must now avail themselves of the ebb to take the wood to the mouth. Pencroft did not intend to let the raft go away in the current without guidance, neither did he mean to embark on it himself to steer it. But a sailor is never at a loss when there is a question of cables or ropes, and Pencroft rapidly twisted a cord, a few fathoms long, made of dry creepers. This vegetable cable was fastened to the after-part of the raft, and the sailor held it in his hand while Herbert, pushing off the raft with a long pole, kept it in the current. This succeeded capitally. The enormous load of wood drifted down the current. The bank was very equal; there was no fear that the raft would run aground, and before two o'clock they arrived at the river's mouth, a few paces from the Chimneys.

on the right of the river's mouth by

The sailor shook his head sadly. He little expected ever to see Cyrus Harding again; but wishing to leave some hope to Herbert: "Doubtless, doubtless," said he; "our engineer is a man who would get out of a scrape to which any one else would yield." In the meantime he examined the coast with great attention. Stretched out below them was the sandy shore, bounded on the right of the river's mouth by lines of breakers. The rocks which were visible appeared like amphibious monsters reposing in the surf. Beyond the reef, the sea sparkled beneath the sun's rays. To the south a sharp point closed the horizon, and it could not be seen if the land was prolonged in that direction, or if it ran southeast and southwest, which would have made this coast a very long peninsula. At the northern extremity of the bay the outline of the shore was continued to a great distance in a wider curve. There the shore was low, flat, without cliffs, and with great banks of sand, which the tide left uncovered. Pencroft and Herbert then returned towards the west. Their attention was first arrested by the snow-topped mountain which rose at a distance of six or seven miles. From its first declivities to within two miles of the coast were spread vast masses of wood, relieved by large green patches, caused by the presence of evergreen trees. Then, from the edge of this forest to the shore extended a plain, scattered irregularly with groups of trees. Here and there on the left sparkled through glades the waters of the little river; they could trace its winding course back towards the spurs of the mountain, among which it seemed to spring. At the point where the sailor had left his raft of wood, it began to run between the two high granite walls; but if on the left bank the wall remained clear and abrupt, on the right bank, on the contrary, it sank gradually, the massive sides changed to isolated rocks, the rocks to stones, the stones to shingle running to the extremity of the point. "Are we on an island?" murmured the sailor. "At any rate, it seems to be big enough," replied the lad. "An island, ever so big, is an island all the same!" said Pencroft. But this important question could not yet be answered. A more perfect survey had to be made to settle the point. As to the land itself, island or continent, it appeared fertile, agreeable in its aspect, and varied in its productions. "This is satisfactory," observed Pencroft; "and in our misfortune, we must thank Providence for it." "God be praised!" responded Herbert, whose pious heart was full of gratitude to the Author of all things.

We shall be all right if we wait till it ebbs

"But we have the river," said Herbert. "Right," replied Pencroft; "the river will be to us like a road which carries of itself, and rafts have not been invented for nothing." "Only," observed Herbert, "at this moment our road is going the wrong way, for the tide is rising!" "We shall be all right if we wait till it ebbs," replied the sailor, "and then we will trust it to carry our fuel to the Chimneys. Let us get the raft ready." The sailor, followed by Herbert, directed his steps towards the river. They both carried, each in proportion to his strength, a load of wood bound in fagots. They found on the bank also a great quantity of dead branches in the midst of grass, among which the foot of man had probably never before trod. Pencroft began directly to make his raft. In a kind of little bay, created by a point of the shore which broke the current, the sailor and the lad placed some good-sized pieces of wood, which they had fastened together with dry creepers. A raft was thus formed, on which they stacked all they had collected, sufficient, indeed, to have loaded at least twenty men. In an hour the work was finished, and the raft moored to the bank, awaited the turning of the tide. There were still several hours to be occupied, and with one consent Pencroft and Herbert resolved to gain the upper plateau, so as to have a more extended view of the surrounding country. Exactly two hundred feet behind the angle formed by the river, the wall, terminated by a fall of rocks, died away in a gentle slope to the edge of the forest. It was a natural staircase. Herbert and the sailor began their ascent; thanks to the vigor of their muscles they reached the summit in a few minutes; and proceeded to the point above the mouth of the river. On attaining it, their first look was cast upon the ocean which not long before they had traversed in such a terrible condition. They observed, with emotion, all that part to the north of the coast on which the catastrophe had taken place. It was there that Cyrus Harding had disappeared. They looked to see if some portion of their balloon, to which a man might possibly cling, yet existed. Nothing! The sea was but one vast watery desert. As to the coast, it was solitary also. Neither the reporter nor Neb could be anywhere seen. But it was possible that at this time they were both too far away to be perceived. "Something tells me," cried Herbert, "that a man as energetic as Captain Harding would not let himself be drowned like other people. He must have reached some point of the shore; don't you think so, Pencroft?"

if we can make a fireplace in the left

"Here's our work," said Pencroft, "and if we ever see Captain Harding again, he will know how to make something of this labyrinth." "We shall see him again, Pencroft," cried Herbert, "and when be returns he must find a tolerable dwelling here. It will be so, if we can make a fireplace in the left passage and keep an opening for the smoke." "So we can, my boy," replied the sailor, "and these Chimneys will serve our turn. Let us set to work, but first come and get a store of fuel. I think some branches will be very useful in stopping up these openings, through which the wind shrieks like so many fiends." Herbert and Pencroft left the Chimneys, and, turning the angle, they began to climb the left bank of the river. The current here was quite rapid, and drifted down some dead wood. The rising tide--and it could already be perceived--must drive it back with force to a considerable distance. The sailor then thought that they could utilize this ebb and flow for the transport of heavy objects. After having walked for a quarter of an hour, the sailor and the boy arrived at the angle which the river made in turning towards the left. From this point its course was pursued through a forest of magnificent trees. These trees still retained their verdure, notwithstanding the advanced season, for they belonged to the family of "coniferae," which is spread over all the regions of the globe, from northern climates to the tropics. The young naturalist recognized especially the "deedara," which are very numerous in the Himalayan zone, and which spread around them a most agreeable odor. Between these beautiful trees sprang up clusters of firs, whose opaque open parasol boughs spread wide around. Among the long grass, Pencroft felt that his feet were crushing dry branches which crackled like fireworks. "Well, my boy," said he to Herbert, "if I don't know the name of these trees, at any rate I reckon that we may call them 'burning wood,' and just now that's the chief thing we want." "Let us get a supply," replied Herbert, who immediately set to work. The collection was easily made. It was not even necessary to lop the trees, for enormous quantities of dead wood were lying at their feet; but if fuel was not wanting, the means of transporting it was not yet found. The wood, being very dry, would burn rapidly; it was therefore necessary to carry to the Chimneys a considerable quantity, and the loads of two men would not be sufficient. Herbert remarked this. "Well, my boy," replied the sailor, "there must be some way of carrying this wood; there is always a way of doing everything. If we had a cart or a boat, it would be easy enough."

as medieval priests carried a cross

They were running low of _potio_, and they knew that from the _sultani's_ subjects in these mountains a further supply could be had. As a consequence, an unwonted _kalele_ was smiting the air. Each man chatted to his next-door neighbour at the top of his lungs, laughing loudly, squealing with delight. Kingozi sat enjoying it. He had been so long in Africa that this happy rumpus always pleased him. Suddenly it fell to silence. He cocked his ear, trying to understand the reason. Across the open veldt two figures had been descried. They were coming toward the camp at a slow dogtrot; and as they approached it could be seen that save for a turban apiece they were stark naked; and save for a spear and a water gourd apiece they were without equipment. One held something straight upright before him, as medieval priests carried a cross. The turbans were formed from their blankets; mid-blade of each spear was wound with a strip of red cloth; the object one carried was a letter held in the cleft of a stick. By these tokens the safari men knew the strangers to be messengers. The mail service of Central Africa is slow but very certain. You give your letter to two reliable men and inform them that it is for _Bwana_ So-and- so. Sooner or later _Bwana_ So-and-so will get that letter. He is found by a process of elimination. In the bazaars the messengers inquire whether he has gone north, south, east, or west. Some native is certain to have known some of his men. So your messengers start west. Their progress thenceforward is a series of village visits. The gossip of the country directs them. Gradually, but with increasing certainty, their course defines itself, until at last--months later-- they come trotting into camp. These two jogged in broadly agrin. Cazi Moto and Simba led them at once to Kingozi's chair. "These men bring a _barua_ for you, _bwana_," said Cazi Moto. Kingozi took the split wand with the letter thrust crosswise in the cleft. "Who sent them?" he asked. "The _Bwana_ M'Kubwa[10], _bwana_." [10: _Bwana M'Kubwa_--the great lord, i.e., the chief officer of any district.] "Have they no message?" "They say no message, _bwana_."

In the matter of rhinoceros and similar dangers

"What is it?" he begged, getting uncertainly to his feet. "Where are you?" But she did not answer him. After a moment she slipped away. Chapter 21 The Messengers The return trip began promptly the following morning, and progressed uninterruptedly for two weeks. One by one they picked up the water-holes found on the journey out. A few details had to be adjusted to compensate for Kingozi's lack of eyes. The matter of meat supplies, for example. "Good luck I gave some attention to your shooting, old sportsman," he remarked to Simba in English, then in Swahili: "Here are five cartridges. Go get me a zebra and a kongoni." Simba was no shot, but Kingozi knew he would stalk, with infinite patience and skill, fairly atop his quarry before letting off one of the precious cartridges. In the matter of rhinoceros and similar dangers, they simply took a chance. Kingozi marched at the end of a stick held by Simba. He gave his whole energies to getting over the day's difficulties of all sorts. His relations with the Leopard Woman swung back. Perhaps vaguely, in the back of his mind, he looked forward to the interpretation of that unpremeditated kiss; but just now a mixed feeling of responsibility and delicacy prevented his going forward from the point attained. During the march they walked apart most of the time. The weariness of forced travel abridged their evenings. Chake walked guarded, and slept in chains. Whenever the location of water-holes permitted, the safari made long jumps. The two messengers sent out with a scrawled letter to Doctor McCloud--whom they knew as Bwana Marefu--were of course far ahead. With any luck Kingozi hoped to meet the surgeon not far from the mountains where dwelt the _sultani_ of the ivory stockade. Thus the march went through a fortnight. The close of the fourteenth day found them camped near water in a _donga_. The dim blue of mountains had raised itself above the horizon ahead. This rejoiced the men.

I do not think you will give your word to me

"But to do what I wished to do--as you say just now yourself--I am ready to use all means--even to killing. Why do you not think I would also break, my word to do my ends?" "I think you would not." "But do you think I would, what you call--consider your trust in me more great than my government's trust in me?" "No. I do not think that either." "Well?" "I do not think you will give your word to me unless you mean to keep it. If you do give it, I am willing to rely upon it." The Leopard Woman moved impulsively to his side. "Very well. I give it," she said with a choke. "That you go with my safari, without subterfuge, without sending word anywhere--in other words, a fair start afresh!" "Just that," she replied. "That is your word of honour?" "My word of honour." "Give me your hand on it." She laid her palm in his. His hand closed over hers, gripping it tightly. Her eyes were swimming, her breast heaved. Slowly she swayed toward him, leaned over him. Her lips touched his. Suddenly she was seized hungrily. She abandoned herself to the kiss. But after a moment she tore herself away from him, panting. "This must not be!" she cried tragically. "I know not what I do! This is not good! I am a woman of honour!" Kingozi, his blind face alight, held out his arms to her. "Your honour is safe with me," he said. But he had mistaken her meaning. Step by step she recoiled from him until she stood at the distance of some paces, her hands pressed against her cheeks, her eyes fixed on him with a strange mixture of tenderness, pity, and sternness.

How could I want

"I remember now something you said when you broke the bottle of pilocarpin," he said slowly. "I did not notice it at the time; now it comes to me. 'I have saved your life,' you said. I get the meaning of that now. You would have killed me rather than not have forestalled me; but the blindness saved you that necessity. You know, I am a little glad to learn that you did not _want_ to kill me." "Want!" she cried. "How could I want?" Kingozi chuckled. "You told me enough times just what you thought of me." Her crest reared, but drooped again. "No women likes to be treated so. And if you had your eyes, so I would hate you again!" "I don't know why you want to prevent me from reaching M'tela, nor why you want to reach him first, nor why in its wisdom your government sent you at all. I'd like to know, just as a matter of curiosity. But it doesn't really matter, because it does not affect the essential situation in the least." "You are going to M'tela just the same?" she inquired anxiously. "Bless you, no. I have no desire to go blind. It's the beastliest affliction can come to an active man. And glaucoma is a tricky thing. I'd like to get to McCloud tomorrow. But still you are not going to get to M'tela before me." "No?" "I am sorry; but you will have to go with me." "You have the force," she acknowledged after a moment. Somewhat surprised at her lack of protest--or was it resignation to the inevitable?--Kingozi checked himself. After a moment he went on. "Somehow," he mused, "in spite of your amiable activities, I have a certain confidence in you. It would be much more comfortable for both of us if you would give me your word not to try to escape, or to go back, or to leave my camp, or cause your men to leave my camp, or anything like that." "Would you trust my word?" "If you would give it solemnly--yes."

I am free to confess I do not know why

"As you say, the time for fencing is over," pursued Kingozi. "That is true. And it is true also that you are not merely travelling for pleasure. You are yourself on a mission. You are Hungarian, but you are in the employ of the German Government." She laughed musically. "_Bravo!_" she cried. "That is true. But go on--how do you make the guess?" "Your maps, your--pardon me--equivocations, and a few other matters of the sort. Now it is perfectly evident that you are trying to forestall me in some manner." "Point number two," she agreed mockingly. "I am free to confess I do not know why; and at present I do not care. That's why I tell you. You are so anxious to forestall me--for this unknown reason--that when smaller things fail----" "You are of an interest--what smaller things?" "Various wiles--some of them feminine. Delays, for example. Do you suppose I believed for a moment those delays were not inspired? That is why my punishments were so severe--and other wiles," he concluded vaguely. She did not press the point. "When smaller things failed," he repeated, "you would have resorted even to murder. Your necessity must have been great." "Believe me--it was!" she answered. He brought up short at the unexpected feeling that vibrated in her voice. His face expressed a faint surprise, and he returned to his subject with fresh interest. "And when my eyes failed me, and you could have given me my sight by the mere reading of a label, you refused; you condemned me to the darkness. And, further, when I had a chance to learn my remedy for myself, you destroyed it. I wonder whether that cost you anything, too?" He sat apparently staring out into the distance, his sightless eyes wide with the peculiar blank pathos of the blind. The Leopard Woman's own eyes were suffused with tears!

leaving the rest to spread upward or

It struck Keith as interesting that in a room a stream should always be directed at the top of a fire, so that the water running down helps extinguish the flames below, whereas in attack at the bottom or centre merely puts out the immediate blaze, leaving the rest to spread upward or sideways. Taylor put himself on record against fighting fire from the street. "Don't want a whole lot of water and row," he maintained. "Get in close quarters and make every drop count." When Bert's enthusiasm palled, Keith always found men in the reading-room. The engine house was a sort of clearing house for politics, business schemes, personal affairs, or differences. Once a day, also, as part of his job in his profession, Keith went to the courthouse. There he sat in the enclosure reserved for lawyers and listened to the proceedings, his legal mind alert and interested in the technical battles. At no time in the world's history has sheer technicality unleavened by common sense been carried further than in the early California courts. Even in the most law-ridden times elsewhere a certain check has been exercised by public opinion or the presence of business interests. But here was as yet no public opinion; and business interests, their energies fully taxed by the necessities of a new country, were willing to pay heavily to be let alone. Consequently, lawyers were permitted to play out their fascinating game to their hearts' content, and totally without reference to expedience or to the justice of the case. The battles were indeed intensely technical and shadowy. Points within points were fought bitterly. Often for days the real case at issue was forgotten. Only one of the more obvious instances of technical triumph need be cited. One man killed another, on a public street, before many witnesses. The indictment was, however, thrown out and he released because it stated only that the victim was killed by a pistol, and failed to specify that his death was due to the discharge of said pistol. The lawyer who evolved this brilliant idea was greatly admired and warmly congratulated. The wheels of the law ground very slowly. One of the simplest and most effective expedients of defence was delay. A case could be postponed and remanded, often until the witnesses were scattered or influenced. But there were infinite numbers of legal expedients, all most interesting to a man of Keith's profession. His sense of justice was naturally strong and warm, and an appeal to it outside a courtroom or a law office always got an immediate and commonsense response. But inside the law his mind automatically closed, and a "case" could have only legal aspects. Which is true of the majority of lawyers to-day.

as effective on the fire

The nozzles, all in racks, he handled with almost reverent care. "These are the boys that cost the money," said Taylor. "If the inside isn't polished like a mirror the water doesn't come smooth. And the least little dent makes the stream ragged and broken. Nothing looks worse--and it isn't as effective on the fire. It ought to be thrown like a solid rod of water. I can't get the boys to realize that the slightest bruise, dent, or burr throws the stream in a ragged feathery foam. The result of that is that a lot of water is dissipated and lost." Keith, who had taken hold of the nozzle rather negligently, returned it with the reverent care due crown jewels. "How long a stream will it throw?" he asked. "With thirty men on a side she's done a hundred and twelve feet high, and two hundred and eighteen for distance," said Bert with simple pride. He picked up the nozzle again. "See here. Here's an invention of my own. Cost money to put it in, too, because every other nozzle on earth is made wrong." He explained that other nozzles are made so that the thread of the hose screwed into the nozzle; while in his, the thread of the nozzle screwed into the hose. "If there's a leak or a bad connection," explained Bert, "with the old type, the water is blown back into the fireman's face, and he is blinded. His whole efficiency depends on a close joint. But with my scheme the leak is blown forward, away from the lineman. It's a perfectly sound scheme, but I can't make them see it." "Sounds reasonable," observed Keith, examining perfunctorily a device to which later he was to owe his life. Item by item they went over the details of equipment--the scaling ladders, the jumping sheets, the branch pipes, the suction pipes, the flat roses, standcocks, goose necks, the dogtails, dam boards, shovels, saws, poleaxes, hooks, and ropes. From a consideration of them the two branched off to the generalities of fire fighting. Keith learned that the combating of a fire, the driving it into a corner, outflanking it, was a fine art. "I say always, _get in close_," said Taylor. "A fire can be _put_ out as well as just drowned out."

men with whom he wanted to affiliate

Keith also had generally passed an interesting day. Immediately after breakfast he went to his office, and conscientiously sat a while. Sometimes he wrote letters or cast up accounts; but there could not be much of this to do. About ten or eleven o'clock his impatient temperament had had enough of this, so he drifted over to the Monumental engine house. After considerable thought he had decided to join this company. It represented about the class of men with whom he wanted to affiliate himself--the influential men of the lawyer, Southern-politician, large business men type. There were many of these volunteer organizations. Their main purpose was to fight fire; but they subserved other objects as well--political, social, and financial. David Broderick, for example, already hated and feared, partly owned and financed a company of ward-heelers who were introducing and establishing the Tammany type of spoils politics. Casey, later in serious trouble, practically manipulated another. Among the Monumentals, Keith delighted especially in Bert Taylor. Bert Taylor likewise delighted in Keith. The little chubby man's enthusiasm for the company, while recognized as most valuable to the company's welfare, had ended by boring most of the company's members. But Keith was a new listener and avid for information. He had had no notion of how complicated the whole matter could be. Bert Taylor dissertated sometimes on one phase of the subject, sometimes on another. "It's drills we need, and the fellows won't drill enough!" was Bert Taylor's constant complaint. "What do they know about hose? They run it out any way it comes; and roll it up anyhow, instead of doing a proper job." "How should you do it?" asked Keith. "It ought to be laid right--so there's no bends or sharp angles in it; it should never be laid over heaps of stones, or any kind of uneven surface-- it all increases the water resistance. If there are any bends or curves they should be regular and even. The hose ought never to rest against a sharp edge or angle. And when you coil it up you ought to reverse the sides every time, so it will wear even and stretch even. Do they do it? Not unless I stand over them with a club!" He showed Keith the hose, made of India rubber, a comparatively new thing, for heretofore hose had been made of riveted leather. Bert Taylor made him feel the inside of this hose with his forefinger to test its superlative smoothness. "Mighty little resistance there!" he cried triumphantly.

he demanded sternly of the deliveryman outside

Painstakingly Nan conveyed to him that this was neither an amusing game nor a practical joke. Later in the day the door bell rang again. Nan, hovering near to gauge the result of her training, saw Wing Sam plant himself firmly in the opening. "You got ticket?" he demanded sternly of the deliveryman outside. "You no got ticket, you no get in!" Which, Nan rather hysterically gathered, was what Wing Sam had gained of the calling-card idea. After that, temporarily as she thought, Nan permitted him to go back to his own method, which, had she known it, was the method of every Chinese servant in California. The visitor found his bell answered by a blandly smiling Wing Sam, who cheerfully remarked: "Hullo!" It was friendly, and it didn't matter; but at that stage of her development Nan was more or less scandalized. Nan's sense of humour always came to her assistance by evening, and she had many amusing anecdotes to tell Keith, over which both of them laughed merrily. Gringo added somewhat to the complications in life. He was a fat, roly-poly, soft-boned, ingratiating puppy, with a tail that waved energetically but uncontrolledly. Gringo at times was very naughty, and very much in the way. But when exasperation turned to vengeance he had a way of keeling over on his back, spreading his hind legs apart in a manner to expose his stomach freely to brutal assault, and casting one calm china- blue eye upward. "Can there anywhere exist any one so hard-hearted as to injure a poor, absolutely defenceless dog?" he inquired, with full confidence in the answer. The iniquities of Gringo and the eccentricities of Wing Sam Nan detailed at length, and also her experiences with the natives. She as yet looked on every one as natives. Only later could she expand to the point of including them in her cosmos of people. Nan was transplanted, and her roots had not yet struck down into the soil. In her shopping peregrinations she was making casual acquaintance, and she had not yet become accustomed to it. "I bought some darling little casseroles at Phelan's to-day," she said. "The whole Phelan family waited on me. Where do you suppose the women get their perfectly awful clothes? Mrs. Phelan offered to take me to her milliner!" or "You know Wilkins--the furniture man where we got the big armchair? I was in there to-day, and he apologized because his wife hadn't called!" They went to bed early, because they were both very tired.

and the big merchants

"I see what you mean," he agreed, his face clearing. "Join a good fire company," she advised him. "That is the first thing to do. Each company represents something different, a different class of men." "Which would you advise?" asked Keith seriously. "That is a matter for your own judgment. Only, investigate well. Meet all the people you can. Know the newspaper men, and the big merchants. In your profession you must cultivate men like Terry, Girvin, Shattuck, Gwin. Keep your eyes open. Be bold and use your wits. Above all, make friends; that's it, _make friends_--everybody, everywhere. Don't despise anybody. You will get plenty of chances." She was sitting erect, and her eyes were flashing. Her usual slow indolent grace had fallen from her; she radiated energy. Her slender figure took on a new appearance of knit strength. "Such chances! My heavens! if I were a man!" "You'd make a bully man!" cried Keith. Mrs. Morrell, uttering the same wish, had received from him a different reply, but he had forgotten that. She laughed again, the tension broke, and she sank back into her usual relaxed poise. "But, thank heavens, I'm not," said she. Chapter 13 Affairs for the Keiths passed through another week of what might be called the transition stage. It took them that long to settle down in their new house and into some semblance of a routine--two days to the actual installation, and the evenings full of small matters to arrange. Nan was busy all day long playing with her new toy. The housekeeping was fascinating, and Wing Sam a mixture of delight and despair. Like most women who have led the sheltered life, she had not realized as yet that the customs of her own fraction of one per cent, were not immutable. Therefore, she tried to model the household exactly in the pattern of those to which she had been accustomed. Wing Sam blandly refused to be moulded. Thus Nan spent all one morning drilling him in the proper etiquette of answering doors. Mindful of John McGlynn's advice, she did this by precept, ringing her own door bell, presenting a card as though calling on herself. Wing Sam's placid exterior changed not. A half hour later the door bell rang, but no Wing Sam appeared to answer it. It rang again, and again, until Nan herself opened the door. On the doorstep stood Wing Sam himself. "I foolee you, too," he announced with huge delight.

No doubt they had also grabbed any

She was half-scared and half-thrilled. Scared, because they were clearly tough professional criminals who would kill her if necessary, and because they had the virus. Thrilled, because she was tough, too, and she had a chance to redeem herself by catching them. But how? The best plan would be to get help, but she had no phone and no car. The house phones had been cut off, presumably by the gang. No doubt they had also grabbed any mobile phones lying around. What about cars? Toni had seen two parked in front of the house, and there must be at least one more in the garage, but she had no idea where the keys were. That meant she had to capture the thieves on her own. She thought about the scene she had witnessed in the courtyard. Daisy and Elton were rounding up the family. But Sophie, the tarty kid, had escaped, and Daisy had gone after her. Toni had heard distant noises from beyond the garage—a car engine, breaking glass, and gunfire—but she could not see what was going on, and she hesitated to expose herself by going to investigate. If she let herself get captured, all hope was lost. She wondered if anyone else was at liberty. The gang must be in a hurry to get going, for their rendezvous was at ten o'clock, but they would want to account for everyone before leaving, so that no one could call the police. Perhaps they would begin to panic and make mistakes. Toni fervently hoped so. The odds against her were fearsome. She could not cope with all four villains at once. Three of them were armed—with thirteen-shot Browning automatic pistols, according to Steve. Her only chance would be to pick them off one by one. Where should she start? At some point she had to enter the main house. At least she knew the layout—fortuitously, she had been shown around yesterday. But she did not know where in the house everyone was, and she was reluctant to jump into the dark. She was desperate for more information. As she was racking her brains, she lost the initiative. Elton emerged from the house and came across the courtyard toward the barn. He was younger than Toni, probably twenty-five. He was tall and looked fit. In his right hand he carried a pistol, pointed down at the ground. Although Toni was trained in combat, she knew he would be a formidable adversary even without the gun. If possible, she had to avoid getting into a hand-to-hand fight with him.

From there he would make his leisurely

He was hoping that the major roads would be cleared of snow by the end of today. He planned to drive to London and check into a small hotel, paying cash. He would lie low for a couple of weeks, then catch a train to Paris with fifty thousand pounds in his pocket. From there he would make his leisurely way across Europe, changing small amounts of money as he needed it, and end up in Lucca. But first, they had to account for everyone here at Steepfall, in order to delay pursuit. And it was proving absurdly difficult. Elton made Ned lie on the floor, then tied him up. Ned was quiet but watchful. Nigel tied Tom, who was still sniveling. When Elton opened the pantry door to put them inside, Kit saw to his surprise that the prisoners had managed to remove their gags. Olga spoke first. "Please, let Hugo out of here," she said. "He's badly injured and he's so cold. I'm afraid he'll die. Just let him lie on the floor in the kitchen, where it's warm." Kit shook his head in amazement. Olga's loyalty to her unfaithful husband was incomprehensible. Nigel said, "He shouldn't have punched me in the face." Elton pushed Ned and Tom into the pantry with the others. Olga said, "Please, I'm begging you!" Elton closed the door. Kit put Hugo out of his mind. "We've got to find Toni Gallo, she's the dangerous one." Nigel said, "Where do you think she is?" "Well, she's not in the house, not in the cottage because Elton's just searched it, and not in the garage because Daisy's just been there. So either she's out of doors, where she won't last long without a coat, or she's in the barn." "All right," Elton said. "I'll go to the barn." * * * TONI was looking out of the barn window. She had now identified three of the four people who had raided the Kremlin. One was Kit, of course. He would have been the planner, the one who told them how to defeat the security system. There was the woman whom Kit had called Daisy—an ironic nickname, presumably, for someone whose appearance would give a vampire a fright. A few minutes ago, in the prelude to the fracas in the courtyard, Daisy had addressed the young black man as Elton, which might be a first name or a surname. Toni had not yet seen the fourth, but she knew that his name was Nigel, for Kit had shouted to him in the hall.

He could not speak

In the driveway behind him was a pile of ripped black leather, white flesh, and gleaming red blood. She was not moving. Sophie got out and stood beside him. "Oh, God, is that her?" Craig felt sick. He could not speak, so he nodded. Sophie whispered, "Do you think she's dead?" Craig nodded again, then nausea overwhelmed him. He turned aside and vomited into the snow. Chapter 49 8:15 AM KIT had a terrifying feeling that everything was coming unglued. It should have been a simple thing for three tough crims such as Nigel, Elton, and Daisy to round up stray members of a law-abiding family. Yet things kept going wrong. Little Tom had made a suicide attack on Daisy; Ned had stunned everyone by protecting Tom from Daisy's revenge; and Sophie had escaped in the confusion. And Toni Gallo was nowhere to be seen. Elton brought Ned and Tom into the kitchen at gunpoint. Ned was bleeding from several places on his face, and Tom was bruised and crying, but they were walking steadily, Ned holding Tom's hand. Kit reckoned up who was still at large. Sophie had run away, and Craig would not be far from her. Caroline was probably still asleep in the barn. Then there was Toni Gallo. Four people, three of them children— surely it could not take long to capture them? But time was running out. Kit and the gang had less than two hours to get to the airfield with the virus. Their customer would not wait very long, Kit guessed. If something seemed wrong he would fear a trap and leave. Elton threw Miranda's phone onto the kitchen table. "Found it in a handbag in the cottage," he said. "The guy doesn't seem to have one." The phone landed beside the perfume spray. Kit longed for the moment when the bottle would be handed over, never to be seen again, and he would get his money.

She had been thrown sideways by

He heard a bang just as he stamped on the throttle. The rear window shattered. The car leaped backwards, straight at Daisy. There was a heavy thump, as though someone had dropped a sack of potatoes on the boot. Craig took his foot off the throttle, and the car rolled to a stop. Where was Daisy? He pushed broken glass out of the windshield and saw her. She had been thrown sideways by the impact and was lying on the ground with one leg at an odd angle. He stared, horrified at what he had done. Then she moved. "Oh, no!" he cried. "Why won't you die?" She reached out with one arm and picked up her gun, lying on the snow nearby. Craig put the car into first gear. The car phone said: "To erase this message, press three." Daisy looked into his eyes and pointed the gun at him. He let out the clutch and stamped on the throttle. He heard the bang of the gun over the bellow of the Ferrari engine, but the shot went wild. He kept his foot down. Daisy tried to drag herself out of the way, and Craig deliberately turned the wheel in her direction. An instant before the impact he saw her face, staring in terror, her mouth open in an inaudible scream. Then the car hit her with a thud. She disappeared beneath its curved front. The low-slung chassis scraped over something lumpy. Craig saw that he was headed straight for the tree he had hit before. He braked, but too late. Once again, the car crashed into the tree. The car phone, which had been telling him how to save messages, stopped in mid-sentence. He tried to start the engine, but nothing happened. There was not even the click of a broken starter motor. He saw that none of the dials was working, and there were no lights on the dashboard. The electrical system had failed. It was hardly surprising, after the number of times he had crashed the car. But that meant he could not use the phone. And where was Daisy? He got out of the car.

also went through the windshield

Craig knocked the stick into neutral and turned the key again. The throaty roar filled his ears. He could see Daisy taking aim again as he pressed the clutch and found first gear. He ducked involuntarily as he pulled away, and it was lucky that he did, for this time his side window smashed. The bullet also went through the windshield, making a small round hole and causing the entire pane of glass to craze over. Now he could see nothing ahead but blurred shapes of darkness and light. Nevertheless he kept the accelerator depressed, doing his best to stay on the driveway, knowing he would die if he did not get away from Daisy and her gun. Beside him, Sophie was curled up in a ball on the passenger seat, hands covering her head. On the periphery of his vision, he saw Daisy running after the car. Another shot banged. The car phone said: "Stanley, this is Toni. Bad news—a break-in at the lab. Please call my mobile as soon as you can." Craig guessed that the people with guns must be connected to the break-in, but he could not think about that now. He tried to steer by what he could see out of the smashed side window, but it was no good. After a few seconds, the car went off the cleared path, and he felt the sudden drag as it slowed. The shape of a tree appeared in the crazed glass of the windshield, and Craig slammed on the brakes, but he was too late, and the car hit the tree with a terrific crash. Craig was thrown forward. His head hit the broken windshield, knocking out shards of glass, cutting the skin of his forehead. The steering wheel bruised his chest. Sophie was flung against the dashboard and fell with her bottom on the floor and her feet up on the seat, but she swore and tried to right herself, so he knew she was all right. The engine had stalled again. Craig looked in the rearview mirror. Daisy was ten yards behind him, walking steadily across the snow toward the car, holding the gun in her suede-gloved hand. He knew instinctively that she was coming closer just to get a clear shot. She was going to kill him and Sophie. He had only one chance left. He had to kill her. He started the engine again. Daisy, five yards away now and directly behind the car, raised her gun arm. Craig put the gearshift into reverse and closed his eyes.

his heart still frozen

The money hadn't been touched. No unauthorized entries into any of his little storage units at Chancy's. Nothing was out of the ordinary. He locked himself inside 18R, opened the five fireproof and waterproof boxes, and counted fifty-three freezer bags. Sitting on the concrete floor with three million dollars strewn around him, Ray Atlee finally admitted how important the money had become. The real horror of last night had been the chance of losing it. Now he was afraid to leave it. In the past few weeks, he had become more curious about how much things cost, about what the money could buy, about how it could grow if invested conservatively, or aggressively. At times he thought of himself as wealthy, and then he would dismiss those thoughts. But they were always there, just under the surface and popping up with greater frequency. The questions were slowly being answered - no it was not counterfeit, no it was not traceable, no it had not been won at the casinos, no it had not been filched from the lawyers and litigants of the 25th Chancery District. 'l And, no, the money should not be shared with Forrest because he would kill himself with it. No, it should not be included in the estate for several excellent reasons. One by one the options were being eliminated. He might be forced to keep it himself. There was a loud knock on the metal door, and he almost screamed. He scrambled to his feet and yelled, "Who is it!" "Security," came the reply, and the voice was vaguely familiar. Ray stepped over the cash and reached for the door, which he cracked no more than four inches. Mr. Murray was grinning at him. "Everything okay in there?" he asked, more of a janitor than an armed guard. "Fine, thanks," Ray said, his heart still frozen. "Need anything, let me know." "Thanks for last night." “Just doing my job." Ray repacked the money, relocked the doors, and drove across town with one eye on the rearview mirror. The owner of his apartment sent a crew of Mexican carpenters around to repair the two damaged doors. They hammered and sawed throughout the late afternoon, then said yes to a cold beer when they were finished. Ray chatted with them as he tried to ease them out of his den. There was a pile of mail on the kitchen table, and, after ignoring it for most of the day, he sat down to deal with it. Bills had to be paid. Catalogs and junk mail. Three notes of sympathy. A letter from the Internal Revenue Service, addressed to Mr. Ray Atlee, Executor of the Estate of Rueben V Atlee, and postmarked in Atlanta two days earlier. He studied it carefully before opening it slowly. A single sheet of official stationery, from one Martin Gage, Office of Criminal Investigations, in the Atlanta office. It read: Dear Mr. Atlee: As executor of your father's estate, you are required by law to include all assets for valuation and taxation purposes. Concealment of assets may constitute tax fraud. The unauthorized disbursement of assets is a violation of the laws of Mississippi and possible federal laws as well. Martin Gage Criminal Investigator

caller threatened to shoot the Judge

He very politely explained who he was and what he wanted. He was leasing three units and there was a bit of concern because someone had vandalized his downtown apartment, and could Mr. Murray please pay special attention to 14B, 37F, and 18R. No problem, said Mr. Murray, who sounded as if he was yawning into the phone. Just a little jumpy, Ray explained. "No problem," mumbled Mr. Murray. IT TOOK one hour and two drinks for the edginess to relent. He was no closer to Charlottesville. There was the urge to hop in the rental car and race through the night, but it passed. He preferred to sleep and try to find an airplane in the morning. Sleep, ] though, was impossible, so he returned to the trial files. The Judge had once said he knew little about zoning law because there was so little zoning in Mississippi, and virtually none in the six counties of the 25th Chancery District. But somehow someone had cajoled him into hearing a bitterly fought zoning case in the city of Columbus. The trial lasted for six days, and when it was over an anonymous phone caller threatened to shoot the Judge, according to his notes. Threats were not uncommon, and he'd been known to carry a pistol in his briefcase over the years. It was rumored that Claudia carried one too. You'd rather have the Judge shooting at you than his court reporter, ran the conventional wisdom. The zoning case almost put Ray to sleep. But then he found a gap, the black hole he'd been digging for, and he forgot about sleep. According to his tax records, the Judge was paid $8,110 in January 1999 to hear a case in the 27th Chancery District. The 27th comprised two counties on the Gulf Coast, a part of the state the Judge cared little for. The fact that he would voluntarily go there for a period of days struck Ray as quite odd. Odder still was the absence of a trial file. He searched the two boxes and found nothing related to a case on the coast, and with his curiosity barely under control he plowed through the other thirty-eight or so. He forgot about his apartment and the self-storage and whether or not Mr. Murray was awake or even alive, and he almost forgot about the money. A trial file was missing. Chapter 26 The US Air flight left Memphis at six-forty in the morning, which meant Ray had to leave Clanton no later than five, which meant he slept about three hours, the usual at Maple Run. On the first flight, he dozed off en route, again in the Pittsburgh airport, and again on the commuter flight to Charlottesville. He inspected his apartment, then fell asleep on the sofa.

it was a quick strike by

"No sign of entry in the other bedroom," Crawford reported, then began talking with two cops. "Hang on," he told Ray, who was standing in the front door, looking through the screen, motionless and trying to think of the fastest way home. The cops and Crawford decided it was a quick strike by a pretty good thief who got surprised by the alarm. He jammed the two doors with minimal damage, realized there was an alarm, raced through the place looking for something in particular, and when he didn't find it he kicked a few things for the hell of it and fled. He or they – could’ve been more than one. "You need to be here to tell the police if anything is missing and to do a report," Crawford said. "I'll be there tomorrow," Ray said. "Can you secure the place tonight?" "Yeah, we'll think of something." "Call me after the cops leave." He sat on the front steps and listened to the crickets while yearning to be at Chaney's Self-Storage, sitting in the dark with one of the Judge's guns, ready to blast away at anyone who came near him. Fifteen hours away by car. Three and a half by private plane. He called Fog Newton and there was no answer. His phone startled him again. "I'm still in the apartment," Crawford said. "I don't think this is random," Ray said. "You mentioned some valuables, some family stuff, at Chaney's Self-Storage." "Yeah. Any chance you could watch the place tonight?" "They got security out there, guards and cameras, not a bad outfit." Crawford sounded tired and not enthusiastic about napping in a car all night. "Can you do it?" "I can't get in the place. You have to be a customer." "Watch the entrance." Crawford grunted and breathed deeply. "Yeah, I'll check on it, maybe call a guy in to watch it." "Thanks. I'll call you when I get to town tomorrow." He called Chaney's and there was no answer. He waited five minutes, called again, counted fourteen rings then heard a voice. "Chaney's, security, Murray speaking."