The lodge door slammed shut with a sudden, interrupting bang. The lock grated, and Henry Duryea's footsteps sounded on the planked floor. Arthur shook himself from the bed. He had only time to fling that haunting book into the Gladstone bag before he sensed his father standing in the doorway. "You--you're not shaving, Arthur." Duryea's words, spliced hesitantly, were toneless. He glanced from the table-top to the Gladstone, and to his son. He said nothing for a moment, his glance inscrutable. Then, "It's blowing up quite a storm outside." Arthur swallowed the first words which had come into his throat, nodded quickly. "Yes, isn't it? Quite a storm." He met his father's gaze, his face burning. "I--I don't think I'll shave, Dad. My head aches." Duryea came swiftly into the room and pinned Arthur's arms in his grasp. "What do you mean--your head aches? How? Does your throat----" "No!" Arthur jerked himself away. He laughed. "It's that French stew of yours! It's hit me in the stomach!" He stepped past his father and started up the stairs. "The stew?" Duryea pivoted on his heel. "Possibly. I think I feel it myself." Arthur stopped, his face suddenly white. "You--too?" The words were hardly audible. Their glances met--clashed like dueling-swords. For ten seconds neither of them said a word or moved a muscle: Arthur, from the stairs, looking down; his father below, gazing up at him. In Henry Duryea the blood drained slowly from his face and left a purple etching across the bridge of his nose and above his eyes. He looked like a death's-head. Arthur winced at the sight and twisted his eyes away. He turned to go up the remaining stairs. "Son!" He stopped again; his hand tightened on the banister. "Yes, Dad?" Duryea put his foot on the first stair, "I want you to lock your door tonight. The wind would keep it banging!" "Yes," breathed Arthur, and pushed up the stairs to his room.

Doctor Duryea's hollow footsteps sounded in steady, unhesitant beats across the floor of Timber Lake Lodge. Sometimes they stopped, and the crackling hiss of a sulfur match took their place, then perhaps a distended sigh, and, again, footsteps.... Arthur crouched at the open door of his room. His head was cocked for those noises from below. In his hands was a double-barrel shotgun of violent gage.... thud ... thud ... thud.... Then a pause, the clinking of a glass and the gurgling of liquid. The sigh, the tread of his feet over the floor.... "He's thirsty," Arthur thought--_Thirsty!_ Outside, the storm had grown into fury. Lightning zigzagged between the mountains, filling the valley with weird phosphorescence. Thunder, like drums, rolled incessantly. Within the lodge the heat of the fireplace piled the atmosphere thick with 

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