Oor, accustomed to discomfort. "Don't you feel cold at all?" persisted Marche kindly. "No, sir." "I suppose you are hardened to this sort of weather?" "Yes, sir." By the light of a flaming match, Marche glanced sideways at him as he drew his pipe into a glow once more, and for an instant the boy's gray eyes flickered toward his in the flaring light. Then darkness masked them both again. "Are you Mr. Herold's son?" inquired the young man. "Yes, sir," almost sullenly. "How old are you?" "Eleven." "You're a big boy, all right. I have never seen your father. He is at the clubhouse, no doubt." "Yes, sir," scarcely audible. "And you and he live there all alone, I suppose?" "Yes, sir." A moment later the boy added jerkily, "And my sister," as though truth had given him a sudden nudge. "Oh, you have a sister, too?" "Yes, sir." "That makes it very jolly for you, I fancy," said Marche pleasantly. There was no reply to the indirect question. His pipe had gone out again, and he knocked the ashes from it and pocketed it. For a while they drove on in silence, then Marche peered impatiently through the darkness, right and left, in an effort to see; and gave it up. "You must know this road pretty well to be able to keep it," he said. "As for me, I can't see anything except a dirty little gray star up aloft." "The horse knows the road." "I'm glad of that. Have you any idea how near we are to the house?
