"I wonder if this is the Bordens'?" said Croyden looking about him for
some one to ask--"Ah!"

Down the path from the house was coming a young woman. He slowed down,
so as to allow her to reach the entrance gates ahead of him. She was
pretty, he saw, as she neared--very pretty!--positively beautiful! dark
hair and----

He took off his hat.

"I beg your pardon!" he said. "Is this Mr. Borden's?"

"Yes--this is Major Borden's," she answered, with a deliciously soft
intonation, which instantly stirred Croyden's Southern blood.

"Then Clarendon is the next place, is it not?"

She gave him the quickest glance of interest, as she replied in the
affirmative.

"Colonel Duval is dead, however," she added--"a caretaker is the only
person there, now."

"So I understood." There was no excuse for detaining her longer. "Thank
you, very much!" he ended, bowed slightly, and went on.

It is ill bred and rude to stare back at a woman, but, if ever Croyden
had been tempted, it was now. He heard her footsteps growing fainter in
the distance, as he continued slowly on his way. Something behind him
seemed to twitch at his head, and his neck was positively stiff with
the exertion necessary to keep it straight to the fore.

He wanted another look at that charming figure, with the mass of blue
black hair above it, and the slender silken ankles and slim tan-shod
feet below. He remembered that her eyes were blue, and that they met
him through long lashes, in a languidly alluring glance; that she was
fair; and that her mouth was generous, with lips full but delicate--a
face, withal, that clung in his memory, and that he proposed to see
again--and soon.

He walked on, so intent on his visual image, he did not notice that the
Borden place was behind him now, and he was passing the avenue that led
into Clarendon.

"Yass, seh! hyar yo is, marster!--hyar's Clarendon," called the negro,
hastening up behind him with his bag.

Croyden turned into the walk--the black followed.

"Cun'l Duval's done been daid dis many a day, seh," he said. "Folks sez
ez how it's owned by some city fellah, now. Mebbe yo knows 'im, seh?"

Croyden did not answer, he was looking at the place--and the negro,
with an inquisitively curious eye, relapsed into silence.

The house was very similar to the Bordens'--unpretentious, except for
the respectability that goes with apparent age, vine clad and tree
shaded. It was of generous proportions, without being large-