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YOU-ALL BETTER LE ME GO KNOW YOU and disconcerting. It was a discord in a perfect nocturne. Yet it, too, was Romance in a way. "And to think I supposed such things happened only in books," Richard told himself, challenging his eyesight. Thru the lattice of holly- twigs, he watched the strange figures at their stranger work, like a conven- tion of goblins initiating a lost soul. The lost soul's back, toward the holly- bush, presented a familiar patch on the seat of the trousers to Richard's view. He started violently, and crept with breathless caution a shade nearer, straining eavesdropping ears. For the prisoner in the evil and sheeted band was Elmer, the staff of the Petersham News. His shrill falsetto, reedy with anger, pierced to Richard's ears. "You- all better le' me go," he was panting. "I know one—two of you, anyhow— you thar, an' you yondah with the whiskers. You-all '11 be right sorry, if you dont let me go!" The masked and hooded mummers drew together, muttering and gestur- ing. In the grip of two of them, the captive snarled defiance, and spat out 7? venomous threat, the more disturbing because vague and indefinite.. The simple moonlight, toying with the sinister figures, gave them ghostlier menace, like unclean fungous growths in the charmed circle of a fairy ring. Richard's eyes, probing surfaces, vainly sought the respectable identi- ties beneath. At some length, the seeming leader turned to Elmer's guards with a muttered order, and the procession moved out of the glen. As the last white robe winked out of sight, the young Northerner followed, dodging from shadow to shadow like a healthy young hound on the scent of ghosts. Morning was winking and yawning across the cloven sky as the two of them limped into the yard of the News and rapped significantly upon the door. The light, keeping vigil behind a shutter, moved—hesitated— and came finally toward them, down the hall. "Who's thar?" Burnay's voice de- manded, keyhole high. "Elmer and Coke." The hinges creaked a welcome.