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scene by stepping behind a convenient tree, where he remained until the big man had entered the house. Then he retreated back down the street and kept well out of sight of the house until after dark.

His room was on the ground floor, and about 9 that night, when there was no one on the street, he returned and entered the room through a window. He struck no light, and moved with extreme caution, being careful to make no noise. He quickly gathered up a few things which he made into a small, compact bundle, slipped out of the window, and keeping carefully in the shadow, left the town and plunged into the darkness of the forest on Chemeketa Mountain.

His many questions regarding the surrounding country had been in the way of providing for just such a contingency as this, and his plans were all formed. As he neared the top of the mountain he paused for a moment to rest, and the thought of the hermit came to him.

With the thought came a grim smile; there was no danger of any interruption as he passed the place now; no, indeed.

Those doddering fools in the village, with their superstitious talk of the "evil eye"! True, the old man's eyes did gleam wickedly, like two coals of fire, when—what was that? Bah! Nerves! Mustn't let this stuff "get his goat." He reached in his pocket for a cigarette—there it was again! Two flaming red eyes in the path ahead of him! Could it be that the old man—no! For God's sake, what was it?

A long, lean, gray phantom shape that advanced slowly, noiselessly, down the trail; and with his blood turning to ice in his veins he saw coming slowly toward him a great wolf-dog, larger than any he had ever seen, with foam-flecked jaws and an almost human expression of malevolent triumph in the creature's blazing eyes. And the gleaming eyes and snarling lips, God help him, were those of the Hermit of Chemeketa Mountain!

As he stared, paralyzed with terror, the brute was joined by two others; they were possibly not quite so large as their apparent leader, but they were every bit as awe-inspiring. Together the three advanced, silently, noiselessly, and in their relentless approach the shrinking fugitive read his doom as surely as if it were written with letters of fire against the blackness of the forest.

In frantic terror he suddenly whipped out a revolver and emptied it in the direction of the approaching brutes. The six shots had no effect whatever, and with a despairing curse that was half a shriek of terror he flung the gun at them, and turned and fled at full speed back through the forest toward the village. And following him in a noiseless, effortless lope that slowly, surely lessened the distance between them, the three phantom hounds relentlessly held the trail.

About midnight the big stranger who waited in Mrs. Sczura's "sitting-room" made arrangements with that worthy woman for the use of her spare bedroom for the rest of the night.

Came morning, and with it Matt Borlitz, fearfully crossing himself as he told of the hideously mangled body that he had found almost at his doorstep. The news soon came to the ears of the big stranger, and he, with a number of the villagers, returned with Borlitz to the little farm at the edge of the wood.

The body was literally torn to pieces, but identification was not difficult; the man had been a subject of considerable interest in the small community, and his clothing, general build, and other details made recog-