It was past seven o'clock when Kirk, bending over the wheel, withMamie at his side came in sight of the shack. The journey had beenchecked just outside the city by a blow-out in one of the back tyres.

　　Kirk had spent the time, while the shirt-sleeved rescuer from thegarage toiled over the injured wheel, walking up and down with a cigar.

　　Neither he nor Mamie had shown much tendency towards conversation.

　　Mamie was habitually of a silent disposition, and Kirk's mind was toofull of his thoughts to admit of speech.

　　Ever since he had read Steve's telegram he had been in the grip of awild exhilaration. He had not stopped to ask himself what this madfreak of Steve's could possibly lead to in the end--he was satisfied tofeel that its immediate result would be that for a brief while, at anyrate, he would have his son to himself, away from all the chillingsurroundings which had curbed him and frozen his natural feelings inthe past.

　　He tried to keep his mind from dwelling upon Ruth. He had thought toomuch of her of late for his comfort. Since they had parted that day ofthe thunder-storm the thought that he had lost her had stabbed himincessantly. He had tried to tell himself that it was the best thingthey could do, to separate, since it was so plain that their love haddied; but he could not cheat himself into believing it.

　　It might be true in her case--it must be, or why had she let him gothat afternoon?--but, for himself, the separation had taught him thathe loved her as much as ever, more than ever. Absence had purified himof that dull anger which had been his so short a while before. Helooked back and marvelled that he could ever have imagined for a momentthat he had ceased to love her.

　　Now, as he drove along the empty country roads, he forced his mind todwell, as far as he could, only upon his son. There was a mist beforehis eyes as he thought of him. What a bully lad he had been! What funthey had had in the old days! But that brought his mind back to Ruth,and he turned his mind resolutely to the future again.

　　He chuckled silently as he thought of Steve. Of all the mad things todo! What had made him think of it? How had such a wild scheme everentered his head? This, he supposed, was what Steve called punchinginstead of sparring. But he had never given him credit for theimagination that could conceive a punch of this magnitude.

　　And how had he carried it out? He could hardly have broken into thehouse. Yet that seemed the only way in which it could have been done.

　　From Steve his thoughts returned to William Bannister. He smiled again.

　　What a time they would have--while it lasted! The worst of it was, itcould not last long. To-morrow, he supposed, he would have to take thechild back to his home. He could not be a party to this kidnapping raidfor any length of time. This must be looked on as a brief holiday, notas a permanent relief.