id any one of the crestfallen
group behind him.

The miles passed but slowly, so heavy was the road's deep mud, and it
seemed to von Rittenheim that he had been travelling for hours when
they crossed the Six Mile Branch that measured but half their journey
done. The keen air of the early morning, whose cold was accentuated by
a drizzling rain, chilled him to the bone, unfortified by food as he
was. He experienced the physical misery that forces to submission men
of large build more quickly than those of lighter make.

His mind suffered in sympathy, and his thoughts were of the bitterest.
Never had his experience known an act of perfidy like that of Wilder.
To have betrayed his hospitality was bad enough,--to have lured him on
to selling the whisky was the act of a villain. He cursed the chance
that had brought the fellow to his door. How had it happened?

The scoundrel had said that he had missed the way, but that was not
probable. The county road was plain enough. He must have passed Dr.
Morgan, too, who would have set him right.

A pang of suspicion came into his mind. One had betrayed him, why not
the other? The Doctor was aware that he had the whisky. He must have
stopped Wilder, knowing him to be an officer, and told him about it.

As a matter of fact, the deputy's story was true. In the dusk he had
turned into the Baron's road without noticing that he had left the
highway. He had passed the Doctor, and had spoken to him, but it was on
the State Road, before he had found himself to be out of his way.

Von Rittenheim, faint from lack of food, sick at heart over his
position, and filled with disgust at his betrayal, was in a mood to
accept any suspicion, and the evil thought grew fat within him. He
pondered every word of his conversation with the Morgans, and fancied
that he saw indisputable evidence of the Doctor's falseness in his talk
about whisky.

The course of affairs in Asheville was brief. Wilder rode beside his
prisoner when they came to the town, not because he feared Friedrich's
escape, but that he might have the appearance of being in command of
the troop. Von Rittenheim was too closely absorbed in his own painful
thoughts to pay any attention to this enforced companionship. He
dismounted wearily as the squad drew rein before the Federal Building,
and followed the deputy-marshal into the commissioner's office.

It was early, but Mr. Weaver was at his desk, for he happened to be
pressed with work.