struggling with the hatch on the horse barn. He pulled his cloak about him and started towards Peter to stop him. The rain beat his face, blinding him momentarily, and before he could see clearly a dark mass pounded by, swift hoofs spattering mud all over him.

Down the road sped Peter on the horse—down the road and towards the foot-bridge. Mirestone ran a few steps and halted. He heard the hollow staccato of horse's hoofs on the planks for an instant, followed by a splintering crash that rumbled up from the gorge. A long, guttural cry pierced the black gloom as man and horse plunged down to the seething death awaiting them.

Cursing savagely, Milestone trudged back through the rain to the house. He slammed the door shut and threw his cloak on Peter's bed. There was one more bottle on the shelf; he smashed the neck and poured a glass. If one could see him bent over the table sending silent curses into his wine, he could readily imagine the feeling of defeat that had spread over Mirestone's countenance. The idiot of a Dutchman who had to play the hero's part and save other lives by ending his own made Mirestone fairly sick. However, all was not over. So the Dutchman had died; the hex had worked—a lot sooner than he had expected though. Now he certainly would be delayed in his progress, for he had counted on examining the body for any traces left that would suggest something out of the ordinary. One thing, however, he had learned was that the hex at least worked on humans. The mangled body that was being washed over the rocks would be enough proof on that score.

Mirestone poured another drink. He leaned back in the chair and placed the glass to his lips. He was tilted so far back that as he raised the wine to a drinking position, it blocked his view of the room. As he slowly sipped it, however, the room began to come into view—the ceiling first and slowly the wall. His eyes focused on a piece of thread hanging from the ceiling, and as the wine sank lower and lower in the glass, the thread grew longer and longer until in one last swallow he was able to see the end of the line.

Mirestone's hand went stiff as he looked at the thread, for on the end of it was a pure white feather.

In an instant Mirestone realized that the hex had not worked. Peter's death at the bridge had been a grotesque coincidence. Had the untimely plunge in the rapids been the result of the hex the feather would have long since been red, therefore, the tragedy was no more than an accident and Mirestone's hands were innocent of the Dutchman's blood. That realization, of 

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