A son of a man who has been called a slayer has little right to love a woman, even if that woman has a bit of mystery about her.

All things can be explained--but murder! It was growing late, but Fairchild did not seek bed.

Instead he sat by the window, staring out at the shadows of the mountains, out at the free, pure night, and yet at nothing.

After a long time, the door opened, and a big form entered--Harry--to stand silent a moment, then to come forward and lay a hand on the other man's shoulder.
"Don't let it get you, Boy," he said softly--for him.

"It's going to come out all right.