As Ann Boyd reached the veranda, on her return to the house, loud and angry voices came from the parlor through an open window.

"Blast you, I believe it was some woman," she heard Masters say in a maudlin tone, "and that's why you are so anxious to hurry us away. Oh, I'm onto you. George Wilson told me you were hanging round the girl you refused to introduce me to, and for all I know—"

"That's no business of yours," Chester retorted, in a tone of sudden fury. "I've stood this about as long as I'm going to, Masters, even if you are drunk and don't know what you are about. Peterkin, you'd better take your friend home; my house is not a bar-room, and my affairs are my own. I want that understood."

"Look here, Masters," a new voice broke in, "you are going too far, and I'm not going to stand for it. Chester's right. When you are full you are the most unreasonable man alive. This is my turnout at the door—come on, or I'll leave you to walk to Springtown."

"Well, I'll go all right," threatened Masters, "but I am not done yet. I'll see you again, my boy. What they used to say in college is true; you won't tote fair. You are for number one every time, and would sacrifice a friend for your own interests at the drop of a hat."

"Take him on, take him on!" cried Chester.

"Oh, I'm going all right!" growled Masters. "And I'm not drunk either. My judgment of you is sober-headed enough. You—"

They were coming through the hall to gain the door, and Ann quickly concealed herself behind one of the tall Corinthian columns that supported the massive, projecting roof of the veranda. She was standing well in the shadow when Masters, drawn forcibly by his friend, staggered limply out and down the steps. Langdon followed to the edge of the veranda, and stood there, frowning sullenly in the light from the window. He was pale and haggard, his lip quivering in the rage he was trying to control as he watched Peterkin half lifting and almost roughly shoving Masters into the vehicle.

"The puppy!" Ann heard him muttering. "I ought to have slapped his meddlesome mouth."

Several minutes passed. Ann scarcely dared to breathe freely, so close was she to the young planter. Masters was now in the buggy, leaning forward, his head lolling over the dashboard, and Peterkin was getting in beside him. The next moment the impatient horses had turned around and were off down the drive in a brisk trot.

"Yes, I ought to have kicked the meddling devil out and been done with it!" Ann heard Langdon say. "She, no doubt, has heard all the racket and been scared to death all this time, poor little thing!"

Chester was on the point of turning into the hall when a step sounded at the corner of the house nearest the negro quarter, and a short, portly figure emerged into the light.

"Marse Langdon, you dar?" a voice sounded.

"Yes, Aunt Maria." The young planter spoke with ill-disguised impatience. "What is it?"

"Nothin', Marse Langdon, 'cep' dem rapscallions kept me awake, an' I heard you stormin' out at um. I tol' yo' pa, Marse Langdon, ef dey was any mo' night carouses while he was gone I'd let 'im know, but I ain't gwine mention dis, kase I done see how hard you tried to oust dat low white trash widout a row. You acted de plumb gentleman, Marse Langdon. Is de anything I kin do fer you, Marse Langdon?"

"No, Aunt Maria." Chester's tone betrayed impatience even with the consideration of the faithful servant. "No, I don't want a thing. I'm going to bed. I've got a headache. If any one should call to-night, which is not likely at this hour, send them away. I sha'n't get up."

Ann was now fearful lest in turning he would discover her presence before the negro had withdrawn, and, seeing her opportunity while his attention was still on the road, from which the trotting of the departing horses came in a steady beat of hoofs, she noiselessly glided into the big hall through the open door and stood against a wall in the darkness.

"Now, I reckon, they will let me alone!" she heard Chester say, as he came into the hall and turned into the parlor. The next instant he had blown out the tall prismed lamp, lowered a window, and come out to close and lock the front door.

His hand was on the big brass handle when, in a calm voice, Ann addressed him:

"I want a word with you, Mr. Chester," she said, and she moved towards him, the revolver hanging at her side.

She heard him gasp, and he stood as if paralyzed in the moonbeams which fell through the open doorway and the side-lights of frosted glass.

"Who are you?" he managed to articulate.

"Oh, you know me, I reckon, Mr. Chester. I'm Ann Boyd. I want to see you on a little private business, just between you and me, you know. It needn't go any further."

"Oh, Ann Boyd!" he exclaimed, and the thought ran through his bewildered brain that she had mistaken him for his father, and that he was accidentally running upon evidence of an intercourse between the two that he had thought was a thing of the past. "But, Mrs. Boyd," he said, "you've made a mistake. My father is away; he left for Savannah—"

"I didn't want to see your father," Ann snarled, angrily. "My business is with you, my fine young man, and nobody else."

"Me?" he gasped, in growing surprise. "Me?"

"Yes, you. I've come back for Virginia Hemingway's shawl. She says you kept it. Just between you and me," she went on, "I don't intend to leave a thing like that in the hands of a man of your stamp to hold over the poor girl and intimidate her with."

"You say—you say—" He seemed unable to formulate expression for his abject astonishment, and he left the door and aimlessly moved to the railing of the stairs and stood facing her. His eyes now fell on the revolver in her hand, and the sight of it increased his wondering perturbation.

"I said I wanted her shawl," Ann repeated, firmly, "and I don't see no reason why I should stand here all night to get it. You know what you did with it. Hand it to me!"

"Her shawl?" he muttered, still staring at her wide-eyed and bewildered, and wondering if this might not be some trap the vindictive recluse was setting for him.

"Oh, I see," Ann laughed—"you think the poor, frail thing is still up there locked in that room; but she ain't. I saw her coming this way to-night, and, happening to know what you wanted her for, I come after her. You was busy with them galoots in the parlor, and I didn't care to bother you, so I went up and fetched her down without waiting to send in a card. She's in her bed by this time, poor little thing! And I come back for the shawl. I wasn't afraid of you, even without this gun that I found in your room. Thank God, the girl's as pure as she was the day she drew milk from her mother's breast, and I'll see to it that you won't never bother her again. This night you have sunk lower than man ever sunk—even them in your own family. You tried everything hell could invent, and when you failed you went to heaven for your bribes. You knew how she loved her wretched old hag of a mammy and what she wanted the money for. Some sensible folks argue that there isn't no such place as a hell. I tell you, Langdon Chester, there is one, and it's full to running over—packed to the brink—with your sort. For your own low and selfish gratification you'd consign that beautiful flower of a girl to a long life of misery. You dirty scamp, I'm a good mind to—Look here, get me that shawl! You'll make me mad in a minute." She suddenly advanced towards him, the revolver raised half threateningly, and he shrank back in alarm.

"Don't, don't point that thing at me!" he cried. "I don't want trouble with you."

"Well, you get that shawl then, and be quick about it."

He put a foot on the lower step of the stairs. "It's up at the door of the room," he said, doggedly. "I dropped it there just for a joke. I was only teasing her. I—I know she's a good girl. She—she knew I was going to give it back to her. I was afraid she'd get frightened and run down before those men, and—"

"And your hellish cake would be dough!" Ann sneered. "Oh, I see, but that isn't getting the shawl."

He took another slow step, his eyes upon her face, and paused.

"You are trying to make it out worse than it is," he said, at the end of his resources. "I promised to give her the money, which I had locked in the desk in the library for safe-keeping, and asked her to come get it. She and I were on the steps when those men drove up. I begged her to run up-stairs to that room. I—I locked the door to—to keep them out more than for—for any other reason."

"Oh yes, I know you did, Langdon Chester, and you took her shawl for the same reason and made the poor, helpless, scared thing agree to wait for you. A good scamp pleases me powerful, but you are too good a sample for any use. Get the shawl."

"I don't want to be misunderstood," Chester said, in an all but conciliatory tone, as he took a slow, upward step.

"Well, you bet there's no danger of me not understanding you," Ann sneered. "Get that shawl."

Without another word he groped up the dark steps. Ann heard him walking about on the floor above, striking matches and uttering exclamations of anger. Presently she heard him coming. When half-way down the stairs he paused and threw the shawl to her.

"There it is," he said, sullenly. "Leave my revolver on the steps."

Ann caught the shawl, which, like some winged thing, swooped down through the darkness, and the next instant she had lowered the hammer of the revolver and laid it on the lowest step of the stairs.

"All right, it's an even swap," she chuckled—"your gun for our shawl. Now go to your bed and sleep on this. It's my opinion that, bad as you are, young man, I've done you a favor to-night."

"There's one thing I'll try to find out," he summoned up retaliatory courage to say, "and that is why you are bothering yourself so much about the daughter of a woman you are doing all you can to injure."

Ann laughed from the door as she crossed the threshold, the shawl under her arm. "It will do you good to study on that problem," she said. "You find that out, and I'll pay you well for the answer. I don't know that myself."

From the window of his room above, Langdon watched her as she passed through the gate and disappeared on the lonely road.

"She won't tell it," he decided. "She'll keep quiet, unless it is her plan to hold it over Jane Hemingway. That may be it—and yet if that is so, why didn't she—wait?"