the existence of any lurking intruder.

There was a quantity of cut brush and fagots piled by the hearth. The policeman stooped for an armful of the kindling, tossed the fuel into the fireplace, and applied a match. The dry, pitchy material took flame instantly, and crackled into a furious blaze. The yellow flare reflected to the farthest corner, searching out every black nook where a person could hide. And there was no one visible.

For a moment he stood irresolute, with puzzled lines drawn between his brows. A woman had been in the cabin a little while before. She must have entered shortly after he went to search for Susy. And she had barred the door behind her. Apparently she had locked him out with deliberate intention, while she did the work she had hardened herself to do.

On his return he had heard the mysterious ringing of a bell. He had heard her quick, overwrought speech; the shots that were fired. His hearing was trustworthy. But if by chance he were tempted to doubt the testimony of his own ears, there remained the two lifeless, huddled objects in the bunks to bear mute witness to the remorseless visitation.

It seemed unlikely that she could have found her chance to escape in the short time it had taken him to pick up the log and batter his way into the cabin. The possibility of some secret cubbyhole, behind the logs or under the floor, suggested itself. As his glance strayed about him, his eye was caught by a metallic glint of something that had been dropped near the wall across the room from the bunks. Crossing the floor, he reached down and picked up a small pearl-handled revolver.

The gun he had knocked from the hand of his first prisoner was a big, heavy-framed weapon. This was a small caliber revolver, light in weight, delicately made--the sort of firearm a woman might choose to carry in her handbag. With a grim tightening of his lips he tilted up the breach and snapped the cartridges from the cylinder. Two were empty cases that had just been fired.He nodded to himself.  This, of course, was the weapon of death. Either it had fallen accidentally from a trembling, guilty hand, or else the owner had flung it away as a hateful possession. Dexter pocketed the revolver, and set about his distasteful task. The woman must be hiding somewhere, and he would find her, he promised himself, if he had to turn the cabin inside out.

He was standing near the doorway, and he started to work systematically around the walls. The structure, which contained the single, 

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