One works quickly when prodded by the pique of curiosity.

And in spite of all that omens could foretell, in spite of the dull, gloomy life which had done its best to fashion a matter-of-fact brain for Robert Fairchild, one sentence in that letter had found an echo, had started a pulsating something within him that he never before had known: "-- It is the blood of an adventurer." And it seemed that Robert Fairchild needed no more than the knowledge to feel the tingle of it; the old house suddenly became stuffy and prison-like as he wandered through it.

Within his pocket were two envelopes filled with threats of the future, defying him to advance and fight it out,--whatever _it_ might be.

Again and again pounded through his head the fact that only a night of travel intervened between Indianapolis and St.Louis; within twelve hours he could be in the office of Henry Beamish.

And then-- A hurried resolution.