In the face of Betty's indignant protest Slosson and the man named Bunker climbed into the carriage.

“Don't you be scared, ma'am,” said the tavernkeeper, who smelt strongly of whisky. “I wouldn't lift my hand ag'in no good looking female except in kindness.”

“How dare you stop my carriage?” cried Betty, with a very genuine anger which for the moment dominated all her other emotions. She struggled to her feet, but Slosson put out a heavy hand and thrust her back.

“There now,” he urged soothingly. “Why make a fuss? We ain't going to harm you; we wouldn't for no sum of money. Drive on, Jim—drive like hell!” This last was addressed to the man who had taken George's place on the box, where a fourth member of Slosson's band had forced the coachman down into the narrow space between the seat and dashboard, and was holding a pistol to his head while he sternly enjoined silence.

With a word to the horses Jim swung about and the carriage rolled off through the night at a breakneck' pace. Betty's shaking hands drew Hannibal closer to her side as she felt the surge of her terrors rise within her. Who were these men—where could they be taking her—and for what purpose? The events of the past weeks linked themselves in tragic sequence in her mind.

What was it she had to fear? Was it Tom who had inspired Norton's murder? Was it Tom for whom these men were acting? Tom who would profit greatly by her disappearance or death.

They swept past the entrance at Belle Plain, past a break in the wall of the forest where the pale light of stars showed Betty the corn-field she and Hannibal had but lately crossed, and then on into pitchy darkness again. She clung to the desperate hope that they might meet some one on the road, when she could cry out and give the alarm. She held herself in readiness for this, but there was only the steady pounding of the big bays as Jim with voice and whip urged them forward. At last he abruptly checked them, and Bunker and Slosson sprang from their seats.

“Get down, ma'am!” said the latter.

“Where are you taking me?” asked Betty, in a voice that shook in spite of her efforts to control it.

“You must hurry, ma'am,” urged Slosson impatiently.

“I won't move until I know where you intend taking me!” said Betty, “If I am to die—”

Mr. Slosson laughed loudly and indulgently.

“You ain't. If you don't want to walk, I'm man enough fo' to tote you. We ain't far to go, and I've tackled jobs I'd a heap less heart fo' in my time,” he concluded gallantly. From the opposite side of the carriage Bunker swore nervously. He desired to know if they were to stand there talking all night. “Shut your filthy mouth, Bunker, and see you keep tight hold of that young rip-staver,” said Slosson. “He's a perfect eel—I've had dealings with him afore!”

“You tried to kill my Uncle Bob—at the tavern, you and Captain Murrell. I heard you, and I seen you drag him to the river!” cried Hannibal.

Slosson gave a start of astonishment at this.

“Why, ain't he hateful?” he exclaimed aghast. “See here, young feller, that's no kind of a way fo' you to talk to a man who has riz his ten children!”

Again Bunker swore, while Jim told Slosson to make haste. This popular clamor served to recall the tavernkeeper to a sense of duty.

“Ma'am, like I should tote you, or will you walk?” he inquired, and reaching out his hand took hold of Betty.

“I'll walk,” said the girl quickly, shrinking from the contact.

“Keep close at my heels. Bunker, you tuck along after her with the boy.”

“What about this nigger?” asked the fourth man.

“Fetch him along with us,” said Slosson. They turned from the road while he was speaking and entered a narrow path that led off through the woods, apparently in the direction of the river. A moment later Betty heard the carriage drive away. They went onward in silence for a little time, then Slosson spoke over his shoulder.

“Yes, ma'am, I've riz ten children but none of 'em was like him—I trained 'em up to the minute!” Mr. Slosson seemed to have passed completely under the spell of his domestic recollections, for he continued with just a touch of reminiscent sadness in his tone. “There was all told four Mrs. Slossons: two of 'em was South Carolinians, one was from Georgia, and the last was a widow lady out of east Tennessee. She'd buried three husbands and I figured we could start perfectly even.”

The intrinsic fairness of this start made its strong appeal. Mr. Slosson dwelt upon it with satisfaction. “She had three to her credit, I had three to mine; neither could crow none over the other.”

As they stumbled forward through the thick obscurity he continued his personal revelations, the present enterprise having roused whatever there was of sentiment slumbering in his soul. At last they came out on a wide bayou; a white mist hung above it, and on the low shore leaf and branch were dripping with the night dews. Keeping close to the water's edge Slosson led the way to a point where a skiff was drawn up on the bank.

“Step in, ma'am,” he said, when he had launched it.

“I will go no farther!” said Betty in desperation. She felt an overmastering fear, the full horror of the unknown lay hold of her, and she gave a piercing cry for help. Slosson swung about on his heel and seized her. For a moment she struggled to escape, but the man's big hands pinioned her.

“No more of that!” he warned, then he recovered himself and laughed. “You could yell till you was black in the face, ma'am, and there'd be no one to hear you.”

“Where are you taking me?” and Betty's voice faltered between the sudden sobs that choked her.

“Just across to George Hicks's.”

“For what purpose?”

“You'll know in plenty of time.” And Slosson leered at her through the darkness.

“Hannibal is to go with me?” asked Betty tremulously.

“Sure!” agreed Slosson affably. “Your nigger, too—quite a party.”

Betty stepped into the skiff. She felt her hopes quicken—she was thinking of Bess; whatever the girl's motives, she had wished her to escape. She would wish it now more than ever since the very thing she had striven to prevent had happened. Slosson seated himself and took up the oars, Bunker followed with Hannibal and they pushed off. No word was spoken until they disembarked on the opposite shore, when Slosson addressed Bunker. “I reckon I can manage that young rip-staver, you go back after Sherrod and the nigger,” he said.

He conducted his captives up the bank and they entered a clearing. Looking across this Betty saw where a cabin window framed a single square of light. They advanced toward this and presently the dark outline of the cabin itself became distinguishable. A moment later Slosson paused, a door yielded to his hand, and Betty and the boy were thrust into the room where Murrell had held his conference with Fentress and Ware. The two women were now its only occupants and the mother, gross and shapeless, turned an expressionless face on the intruders; but the daughter shrank into the shadow, her burning glance fixed on Betty.

“Here's yo' guests, old lady!” said Mr. Slosson. Mrs. Hicks rose from the three-legged stool on which she was sitting.

“Hand me the candle, Bess,” she ordered.

At one side of the room was a steep flight of stairs which gave access to the loft overhead. Mrs. Hicks, by a gesture, signified that Betty and Hannibal were to ascend these stairs; they did so and found themselves on a narrow landing inclosed by a partition of rough planks, this partition was pierced by a low door. Mrs. Hicks, who had followed close at their heels, handed the candle to Betty.

“In yonder!” she said briefly, nodding toward the door.

“Wait!” cried Betty in a whisper.

“No,” said the woman with an almost masculine surliness of tone. “I got nothing to say.” She pushed them into the attic, and, closing the door, fastened it with a stout wooden bar.

Beyond that door, which seemed to have closed on every hope, Betty held the tallow dip aloft, and by its uncertain and flickering light surveyed her prison. The briefest glance sufficed. The room contained two shakedown beds and a stool, there was a window in the gable, but a piece of heavy plank was spiked before it.

“Miss Betty, don't you be scared,” whispered Hannibal. “When the judge hears we're gone, him and Mr. Mahaffy will try to find us. They'll go right off to Belle Plain—the judge is always wanting to do that, only Mr. Mahaffy never lets him but now he won't be able to stop him.”

“Oh, Hannibal, Hannibal, what can he do there—what can any one do there?” And a dead pallor overspread the girl's face. To speak of the blind groping of her friends but served to fix the horror of their situation in her mind.

“I don't know, Miss Betty, but the judge is always thinking of things to do; seems like they was mostly things no one else would ever think of.”

Betty had placed the candle on the stool and seated herself on one of the beds. There was the murmur of voices in the room below; she wondered if her fate was under consideration and what that fate was to be. Hannibal, who had been examining the window, returned to her side.

“Miss Betty, if we could just get out of this loft we could steal their skiff and row down to the river; I reckon they got just the one boat; the only way they could get to us would be to swim out, and if they done that we could pound 'em over the head with the oars the least little thing sinks you when you're in the water.” But this murderous fancy of his failed to interest Betty.

Presently they heard Sherrod and Bunker come up from the shore with George. Slosson joined them and there was a brief discussion, then an interval of silence, and the sound of voices again as the three white men moved back across the field in the direction of the bayou. There succeeded a period of utter stillness, both in the cabin and in the clearing, a somber hush that plunged Betty yet deeper in despair. Wild thoughts assailed her, thoughts against which she struggled with all the strength of her will.

In that hour of stress Hannibal was sustained by his faith in the judge. He saw his patron's powerful and picturesque intelligence applied to solving the mystery of their disappearance from Belle Plain; it was inconceivable that this could prove otherwise than disastrous to Mr. Slosson and he endeavored to share the confidence he was feeling with Betty, but there was something so forced and unnatural in the girl's voice and manner when she discussed his conjectures that he quickly fell into an awed silence. At last, and it must have been some time after midnight, troubled slumbers claimed him. No moment of forgetfulness came to Betty. She was waiting for what—she did not know! The candle burnt lower and lower and finally went out and she was left in darkness, but again she was conscious of sounds from the room below. At first it was only a word or a sentence, then the guarded speech became a steady monotone that ran deep into the night; eventually this ceased and Betty fancied she heard sobs.

At length points of light began to show through chinks in the logs. Hannibal roused and sat up, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands.

“Wasn't you able to sleep none?” he inquired. Betty shook her head. He looked at her with an expression of troubled concern. “How soon do you reckon the judge will know?” he asked.

“Very soon now, dear.” Hannibal was greatly consoled by this opinion.

“Miss Betty, he will love to find us—”

“Hark! What was that?” for Betty had caught the distant splash of oars. Hannibal found a chink in the logs through which by dint of much squinting he secured a partial view of the bayou. “They're fetching up a keel boat to the shore, Miss Betty—it's a whooper!” he announced. Betty's heart sank, she never doubted the purpose for which that boat was brought into the bayou, or that it nearly concerned herself.

Half an hour later Mrs. Hicks appeared with their breakfast. It was in vain that Betty attempted to engage her in conversation, either she cherished some personal feeling of dislike for her prisoner, or else the situation in which she herself was placed had little to recommend it, even to her dull mind, and her dissatisfaction was expressed in her attitude toward the girl.

Betty passed the long hours of morning in dreary speculation concerning what was happening at Belle Plain. In the end she realized that the day could go by and her absence occasion no alarm; Steve might reasonably suppose George had driven her into Raleigh or to the Bowens' and that she had kept the carriage. Finally all her hope centered on Judge Price. He would expect Hannibal during the morning, perhaps when the boy did not arrive he would be tempted to go out to Belle Plain to discover the reason of his nonappearance. She wondered what theories would offer themselves to his ingenious mind, for she sensed something of that indomitable energy which in the face of rebuffs and laughter carried him into the thick of every sensation.

At noon, Mrs. Hicks, as sullen as in the morning, brought them their dinner. She had scarcely quitted the loft when a shrill whistle pierced the silence that hung above the clearing. It was twice repeated, and the two women were heard to go from the cabin. Perhaps half an hour elapsed, then a step became audible on the packed earth of the dooryard; some one entered the room below and began to ascend the narrow stairs, and Betty's fingers closed convulsively about Hannibal's. This was neither Mrs. Hicks nor her daughter, nor Slosson with his clumsy shuffle. There was a brief pause when the landing was reached, but it was only momentary; a hand lifted the bar, the door was thrown open, and its space framed the figure of a man. It was John Murrell.

Standing there he regarded Betty in silence, but a deep-seated fire glowed in his sunken eyes. The sense of possession was raging through him, his temples throbbed, a fever stirred his blood. Love, such as it was, he undoubtedly felt for her and even his giant project with all its monstrous ramifications was lost sight of for the moment. She was the inspiration for it all, the goal and reward toward which he struggled.

“Betty!” the single word fell softly from his lips. He stepped into the room, closing the door as he did so.

The girl's eyes were dilating with a mute horror, for by some swift intuitive process of the mind, which asked nothing of the logic of events, but dealt only with conclusions, Murrell stood revealed as Norton's murderer. Perhaps he read her thoughts, but he had lived in his degenerate ambitions until the common judgments or the understanding of them no longer existed for him. That Betty had loved Norton seemed inconsequential even; it was a memory to be swept away by the force of his greater passion. So he watched her smilingly, but back of the smile was the menace of unleashed impulse.

“Can't you find some word of welcome for me, Betty?” he asked at length, still softly, still with something of entreaty in his tone.

“Then it was you—not Tom—who had me brought here!” She could have thanked God had it been Tom, whose hate was not to be feared as she feared this man's love.

“Tom—no!” and Murrell laughed. “You didn't think I'd give you up? I am standing with a halter, about my neck, and all for your sake—who'd risk as much for love of you?” he seemed to expand with savage pride that this was so, and took a step toward her.

“Don't come near me!” cried Betty. Her eyes blazed, and she looked at him with' loathing.

“You'll learn to be kinder,” he exulted. “You wouldn't see me at Belle Plain; what was left for me but to have you brought here?” While Murrell was speaking, the signal that had told of his own presence on the opposite shore of the bayou was heard again. This served to arrest his attention. A look of uncertainty passed over his face, then he made an impatient gesture as if he dismissed some thought that had forced itself upon him, and turned to Betty.

“You don't ask what my purpose is where you are concerned; have you no curiosity on that score?” She endeavored to meet his glance with a glance as resolute, then her eyes sought the boy's upturned face. “I am going to send you down river, Betty. Later I shall join you in New Orleans, and when I leave the country you shall go with me—”

“Never!” gasped Betty.

“As my wife, or however you choose to call it. I'll teach you what a man's love is like,” he boasted, and extended his hand. Betty shrank from him, and his hand fell at his side. He looked at her steadily out of his deep-sunk eyes in which blazed the fires of his passion, and as he looked, her face paled and flushed by turns. “You may learn to be kind to me, Betty,” he said. “You may find it will be worth your while.” Betty made no answer, she only gathered Hannibal closer to her side. “Why not accept what I have to offer, Betty?” again he went nearer her, and again she shrank from him, but the madness of his mood was in the ascendant. He seized her and drew her to him. She struggled to free herself, but his fingers tightened about hers.

“Let me go!” she panted. He laughed his cool laugh of triumph.

“Let you go—ask me anything but that, Betty! Have you no reward for patience such as mine? A whole summer has passed since I saw you first—”

There was the noisy shuffling of feet on the stairs, and releasing Betty, Murrell swung about on his heel and faced the door. It was pushed open an inch at a time by a not too confident hand and Mr. Slosson thus guardedly presented himself to the eye of his chief, whom he beckoned from the room.

“Well?” said Murrell, when they stood together on the landing.

“Just come across to the keel boat!” and Slosson led the way down the stairs and from the house.

“Damn you, Joe; you might have waited!” observed the outlaw. Slosson gave him a hardened grin. They crossed the clearing and boarded the keel boat which rested against the bank. As they did so, the cabin in the stern gave up a shattered presence in the shape of Tom Ware. Murrell started violently. “I thought you were hanging out in Memphis, Tom?” he said, and his brow darkened as, sinister and forbidding, he stepped closer to the planter. Ware did not answer at once, but looked at Murrell out of heavy bloodshot eyes, his face pinched and ghastly. At last he said, speaking with visible effort,

“I stayed in Memphis until five o'clock this morning.”

“Damn your early hours!” roared Murrell. “What are you doing here? I suppose you've been showing that dead face of yours about the neighborhood—why didn't you stay at Belle Plain since you couldn't keep away?”

“I haven't been near Belle Plain, I came here instead. How am I going to meet people and answer questions?” His teeth were chattering. “Is it known she's missing?” he added.

“Hicks raised the alarm the first thing this morning, according to the instructions I'd given him.”

“Yes?” gasped Ware. He was dripping from every pore and the sickly color came and went on his unshaven cheeks. Murrell dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“You haven't been at Belle Plain, you say, but has any one seen you on the road this morning?”

“No one, John,” cried Ware, panting between each word. There was a moment's pause and Ware spoke again. “What are they doing at Belle Plain?” he demanded in a whisper. Murrell's lips curled.

“I understand there is talk of suicide,” he said.

“Good!” cried Ware.

“They are dragging the bayou down below the house. It looks as though you were going to reap the rewards of the excellent management you have given her estate. They have been trying to find you in Memphis, so the sooner you show yourself the better,” he concluded significantly.

“You are sure you have her safe, John, no chance of discovery? For God's sake, get her away from here as soon as you can, it's an awful risk you run!”

“She'll be sent down river to-night,” said Murrell.

“Captain,” began Slosson who up to this had taken no part in the conversation. “When are you going to cross to t'other side of the bayou?”

“Soon,” replied Murrell. Slosson laughed.

“I didn't know but you'd clean forgot the Clan's business. I want to ask another question—but first I want to say that no one thinks higher or more frequent of the ladies than just me, I'm genuinely fond of 'em and I've never lifted my hand ag'in' 'em except in kindness.” Mr. Slosson looked at Ware with an exceedingly virtuous expression of countenance. He continued. “Yo' orders are that we're to slip out of this a little afore midnight, but suppose there's a hitch—here's the lady knowing what she knows and here's the boy knowing what he knows.”

“There can be no hitch,” rasped out Murrell arrogantly.

“I never knew a speculation that couldn't go wrong; and by rights we should have got away last night.”

“Well, whose fault is it you didn't?” demanded Murrell.

“In a manner it were mine, but the ark got on a sandbank as we were fetching it in and it took us the whole damn night to get clear.”

“Well?” prompted Murrell, with a sullen frown.

“Suppose they get shut of that notion of theirs that the lady's done drowned herself, suppose they take to watching the river? Or suppose the whole damn bottom drops out of this deal? What then? Why, I'll tell you what then—the lady, good looking as she is, knows enough to make west Tennessee mighty onhealthy for some of us. I say suppose it's a flash in the pan and you have to crowd the distance in between you and this part of the world, you can't tell me you'll have any use for her then.” Slosson paused impressively. “And here's Mr. Ware feeling bad, feeling like hell,” he resumed. “Him and me don't want to be left in no trap with you gone God only knows where.”

“I'll send a man to take charge of the keel boat. I can't risk any more of your bungling, Joe.”

“That's all right, but you don't answer my question,” persisted Slosson, with admirable tenacity of purpose.

“What is your question, Joe?”

“A lot can happen between this and midnight—”

“If things go wrong with us there'll be a blaze at the head of the bayou; does that satisfy you?”

“And what then?”

Murrell hesitated.

“What about the girl?” insisted Slosson, dragging him back to the point at issue between them. “As a man I wouldn't lift my hand ag'in' no good looking woman except like I said—in kindness, but she can't be turned loose, she knows too much. What's the word, Captain—you say it!” he urged. He made a gesture of appeal to Ware.

“Look for the light; better still, look for the man I'll send.” And with this Murrell would have turned away, but Slosson detained him.

“Who'll he be?”

“Some fellow who knows the river.”

“And if it's the light?” asked the tavern-keeper in a hoarse undertone. Again he looked toward Ware, who, dry-lipped and ashen, was regarding him steadfastly. Glance met glance, for a brief instant they looked deep into each other's eyes and then the hand Slosson had rested on Murrell's shoulder dropped at his side.