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Harley had not moved save to draw himself upright and expunge the startling expression from his face. Now he stood erect, and with one hand brushed the long hair from his forehead while he thrust the telegrams into his pocket with the other.

He spoke, and the listlessness had gone from his voice. His speech was harsh. He snapped his words.

“Sorry I scared you, Roy. Didn’t hear you approach.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Harley,” replied Roy with a beaming smile, dropping his hands. “I’m a bit on the jump these days. How are you feeling now?”

“Where’s the bus?” snapped Harley.

“Same old place. Over at the camp,” answered the other briskly, his eyes lighting with eagerness.

“Right. Fill her up. We’re leaving for New Plymouth this morning.”

Roy sprang forward and grasped the other’s hand.

“Gee! That’s the best thing I’ve heard you say for weeks! Come on! Let’s be legging it back!”

Harley snatched his hand free.

“Go on ahead. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

Roy understood. He nodded and hurried away. He glanced back as he was taking a short cut by sliding down a bank beneath a picket fence. Harley was upon his knees at the graveside.

Roy whistled blithely as he descended the hillside. His gay music seemed strangely out of place to all who heard it.

Harley was upon his knees, but he was not praying. He was swearing an oath over the bodies of his wife and child—an oath to kill.

The telegram was spread upon the grave. The message was brief and, in his eyes, an abomination.

Harley, his head bowed upon his breast, was speaking softly, and the ferocity had come back to his features and sounded in his low tones.