Camas Prairie chronicle. [volume] (Cottonwood, Idaho) 1901-1917, 1906-10-26
oHAPrER vI.-(cOntinued.)

aAJ1AE1Eh
It showed that night, and to some eff
feet, as the morning light showed Inc.
The broad, slovenly street beneath my
windows was thickly coated; and though
the fall had ceased, a dull sky, streaked
as with muddy whitewash. threatened a
further downfall. 1t was bitterly cold
and flung on my clothes in a vile tenn
per.
Graden was meditating before the
stove when l entered our breakfast-room,
with the strange book he had shown me
during the journey in his hands.
"You look pale as a ghost. Are you
quite ftp he asked kindly.
"Oh, yes; though my night was not
particularly peaceful"
"What do you meanT
/ told him briefly Of my unknown Wis
itor. He seemed greatly interested, ques-
tioning me infinitely on various points.
''Your theory may be correct" he con-
cIuded. Some guest may have mistaken
his chamber, and hurried off on discov-
ering his mistake. Yet, if he had light
with him, how came he to make such an
obvious error; whereas, If 1t was the
striking Of a match that reused you,
what was the man doing wandering in
the darkT'
ITO tell the truth, when first woke,
imagined It was Marnac himself"
II have considered that point. do
not think 1t could have been he"
"And whyY'
Before you were down this morning
/ had a talk with our landlord. The
guests at his house are Of two classes
commercial travellers and those having
business at the dye-works. They do not
stay long-usually a week at most. OF
the nine which he now has, none has ex-
ceeded that limit. He knows them all
personally-six commercials, two dye
works men, and rich Englishman, one
George Wakefield, who has been staying
with some magnate in the neighhorhOod.
But here is Herr Reski himself"
"Gentlemen," said the landlord. bow
ing low, your sleigh is at the door"
.How far 1t It, then, to Castle Oster?"
] asked him.
"Close on twenty mites; and with this
fresh snow it viii be heavy going"
Ten minutes later we slid on our silent
runners, to the tinkle of the bells, out
through the squalid, sprawling town, out
through the wooden novels of the sub
urbs, out past the dye-works, with their
tall, melancholy chimneys, out into the
snow-clad levels beyond, and there from
out Of the east there sprang upon us a
great and bitter wind chilled by it's long
journey over the boundless steppes of
frozen Russia. Here and there, across
the plains, Whit of powdry snow, like
the smoke Of heavy guns, would leap
up before the fiercer blasts, only to burst
and fall as they lulled once more. To the
south and east the pine woods ranged
their formal ranks, black against the
dazzling carpet at their feet. 1t was a
scene Of utter desolation.
We drove in silence. Graden sat In a
huddled mass, his chin buried In the
great wooden comforter he wore, staring
out over the plain with fixed, introspect-
I've eyes. For myself, sat amongst
the rugs beside him in vague speculation.
What could be this danger that threat
ened the scientist from st. Petersburg in
his home at Castle Oster7 After all,
might not our whole journey be a folly
born of Gradients imaginings, a blind
guess that had dragged us half across
Europe2 shivered, and shivering, NUT
tered anathemas on the climate.