rrying him offhand. We had a bit of a
fight, and I got the best of it. When I left I wore his coat, and later
found your papers in his pocket. Do you remember how they were
addressed?"

He shook his head.

"Simply 'Mortimer.' It occurred to me he could turn them over to Clinton,
accuse the Colonel of treason, and share in the confiscation of this
estate, or else hold them as a threat over your sister. I burned them."

He was silent for a long minute, breathing hard; then he thrust out his
hand and clasped mine.

"The damned villain!" he ejaculated, his voice trembling. "Every move he
has made has been an attempt to ruin us. I can see it now. Do you suppose
Claire really cares for the fellow?"

"I am very sure she does not."

"Then what, in heaven's name, does she let him hang around for? I always
hated the sight of his black face and infernal grin, but somehow, I
thought she rather liked him. I wonder if he can be there now! If he is,
then he and Fagin are up to some devilment."

"And what that may be we'll never discover by talking here," I put in
sternly, suddenly realizing we were wasting time. "Come, let's get around
to the north side."

We came in back of the summer-house, and had just left the road, when
three horsemen galloped past, straight up toward the front door, which
stood wide open. The black shadow of a man appeared in the glow of light,
shading his eyes as he looked out into the darkness.

"Is that you, Culver?"

"Yes," sullenly, the speaker swinging down from the saddle.

"Well, you've been a hell of a while getting here. Fagin will skin you
alive; it's nearly daylight already."

"Did the best I could; the cantin' hypocrite wasn't at home; had to go
clear to Medford after him. Come on now, get out o' that!"

He dragged the centre figure roughly from his horse, and hustled him up
the steps.

"The ol' fool thinks we're goin' to kill him, I reckon; been prayin' for
an hour past. Bill got so mad he choked him twice, but it didn't do no
good. Here, take him along in, will yer, and let us hustle some grub."

The man addressed grabbed the limp figure far from gently, and hustled
him through the door. As the others disappeared, leading the three
horses, Mortimer grasped my sleeve.

"That's preacher Jenks," he whispered, "from down at the Cross Roads.
What can Fagin want of him?"

"If Fagin is Grant's tool, and Grant is here," I answered soberly, "I am
ready to make a guess at what is up."