lf at all--but the boy sat unseen
and forgotten in a shadowed corner of the chamber. He was gazing at her,
but her gaze never once wandered from the still white face on the
pillow.

The rest of the family were gathered around the hearth in the great room
downstairs. The judge had been summoned from the cabin in which he
slept, and he was now plying Father Orin with questions. There was a cry
of alarmed amazement when the priest told of finding Ruth at Anvil Rock.
Only William Pressley said nothing, and sat perfectly still, with a
sudden stiffening of his bearing. It was not easy for the priest to make
the whole story clear, for he did not understand it quite clearly
himself. But he told as much as he knew of the night's events. And when
he was done, the judge's voice stilled the clamor of the other excited
voices.

"How can the child have known what was going on? Where is she? We must
find out at once how she came to do so wild and strange a thing. What
under heaven could she have been doing there--in such a place, at such a
time? Where is she?" But he went on with another thought, without
waiting for an answer. "How can those murderous scoundrels have known
that the attorney-general would ride to Anvil Rock alone? It is plain
enough that they did know. The question is--How? By what means can they
possibly have learned anything about the plan? That's the thing! How did
they find out enough to enable them to set this villanous trap? All
those assassins hidden there in the darkness of the Cypress Swamp,
waiting to spring out on one man!" He turned suddenly to the priest.
"What is your opinion, Father? Have you the slightest idea how they
could have learned anything of our plan?"

Father Orin looked straight at William Pressley.

"Yes, I have an idea," he said quietly, with his gaze still fixed on the
young lawyer. "But it is merely unfounded suspicion. I have no real
reason for my suspicions."

"Well, what are they?" asked the judge, eagerly. "You can hardly be
afraid of doing any injustice to those scoundrels. It would be hard to
suspect such murderous villains of any sneaking treachery that they
wouldn't be guilty of if they could. How do you think they found out?
That's what I want to know."

Father Orin was still looking steadily at William Pressley, who returned
the look just as steadily with one that was easier to read than the
priest's. William Pressley's gaze expressed a large, patient tolerance
for prejud