up the shadows. I looked at the man with a sort of wonder.
Abner had been stroking his bronze face with his great sinewy hand, and now he spoke.
"Storm," he said, "Michael Dale's riddle is not the only one that has been read." And he told of Christian Lance's death, and the Delphic sentence that had doubtless caused it. "You knew old Christian, Storm, and his curious life?"
"I did," replied Storm, "and I knew the man who carried off the knob of the andiron. But how do you say that any man read his riddle, Abner, and how do you know that there was any riddle in it? I took the thing to be an idle taunt."
"And so did Randolph," said Abner, "but you were both wrong. The secret was in that scrawled sentence, and some one guessed it."
"How do you know that, Abner?" said Storm.
Abner did not reply directly to the point.
"Old Christian loved money," he went on. "He would have died before he told where it was hidden. And his straining toward the door, as though in death he would follow one who had gone out there, meant that his secret had been divined, and that his gold had gone that way."
"You ride to a conclusion on straws, Abner," said Storm, "if that is all the proof you have."
"Well," replied Abner, "I have also a theory."
"And what is your theory?" said Storm.
"It is this," continued Abner; "when old Chris-
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