glaze with horrible surprise. His arms fell limply to his sides.
"Good God! Kendrick!" he cried.
The voice of the man with whom Billy Magee had but a moment before struggled on the balcony answered:
"Yes, Hayden. I'm back."
Hayden wet his lips with his tongue.
"What—what brought you?" he asked, his voice trailing off weakly on the last word.
"What brought me?" Suddenly, as from a volcano that had long been cold, fire blazed up in Kendrick's eyes. "If a man knew the road from hell back home, what would it need to bring him back?"
Hayden stood with his mouth partly open; almost a grotesque picture of terror he looked in that dim light. Then he spoke, in an odd strained tone, more to himself than to any one else.
"I thought you were dead," he said "I told myself you'd never come back. Over and over—in the night—I told myself that. But all the time—I knew—I knew you'd come."
A cry—a woman's cry—sounded from just
