Every once in a while he abstractedly stirred the embers, sending a little fiery nebula of sparks to the arching roof of the trees.
Like all who gaze into the red heart of a fire, whether on the hearthstone or in the forest glen, he seemed to be seeing visions, evil, perhaps, but very absorbing, in the pantomime of the dancing flames. A smile flicked across his features like the cruel lash of a whip, and she knew then that here was the murderer of Old Joe. His hand might not have dealt the blow, but his cold, calculating engine of a brain had furnished the motive-power.
The flames died down at last, and then, glancing at the men, now deep in slumber, the girl feigning hers perfectly, he rose and went over to the chest, lifted the concealing boughs, cautiously unwound the chains, and raised the lid. As much of emotion as those cold features would ever show, they revealed now in the gloating expression, as he sifted the shining beauties between his fingers.
"The best day's work I ever did—or night's either," she heard him mutter.
Closing the lid, he examined his automatic and resumed his watch, while she sank into real slumbers at last.
In the morning, before sunup, a breakfast, cold for fear now of betraying smoke, was eaten hastily, and this time Sally accepted her own portion for strength against the unknown trials of the day.
All traces of the fire were scattered, then, well-guarded by Nature as was the place, for further security they disengaged vines from the tree-trunks and trailed them over
