The judge's and Mr. Mahaffy's celebration of the former's rehabilitated credit had occupied the shank of the evening, the small hours of the night, and that part of the succeeding day which the southwest described as soon in the morning; and as the stone jug, in which were garnered the spoils of the highly confidential but entirely misleading conversation which the judge had held with Mr. Pegloe after his return from Belle Plain, lost in weight, it might have been observed that he and Mr. Mahaffy seemed to gain in that nice sense of equity which should form the basis of all human relations. The judge watched Mr. Mahaffy, and Mr. Mahaffy watched the judge, each trustfully placing the regulation of his private conduct in the hands of his friend, as the one most likely to be affected by the rectitude of his acts.

Probably so extensive a consumption of Mr. Pegloe's corn whisky had never been accomplished with greater highmindedness. They honorably split the last glass, the judge scorning to set up any technical claim to it as his exclusive property; then he stared at Mahaffy, while Mahaffy, dark-visaged and forbidding, stared back at him.

The judge sighed deeply. He took up the jug and inverted it. A stray drop or so fell languidly into his glass.

“Try squeezing it, Price,” said Mahaffy.

The judge shook the jug, it gave forth an empty sound, and he sighed again; he attempted to peer into it, closing one watery eye as he tilted it toward the light.

“I wonder no Yankee has ever thought to invent a jug with a glass bottom,” he observed.

“What for?” asked Mahaffy.

“You astonish me, Solomon,” exclaimed the judge. “Coming as you do from that section which invented the wooden nutmeg, and an eight-day clock that has been known to run as much as four or five hours at a stretch. I am aware the Yankees are an ingenious people; I wonder none of 'em ever thought of a jug with a glass bottom, so that when a body holds it up to the light he can see at a glance whether it is empty or not. Do you reckon Pegloe has sufficient confidence to fill the jug again for us?”

But Mahaffy's expression indicated no great confidence in Mr. Pegloe's confidence.

“Credit,” began the judge, “is proverbially shy; still it may sometimes be increased, like the muscles of the body and the mental faculties, by judicious use. I've always regarded Pegloe as a cheap mind. I hope I have done him an injustice.” He put on his hat, and tucking the jug under his arm, went from the house.

Ten or fifteen minutes elapsed. Mahaffy considered this a good sign, it didn't take long to say no, he reflected. Another ten or fifteen elapsed. Mahaffy lost heart. Then there came a hasty step beyond the door, it was thrown violently open, and the judge precipitated himself into the room. A glance showed Mahaffy that he was laboring under intense excitement.

“Solomon, I bring shocking news. God knows what the next few hours may reveal!” cried the judge, mopping his brow. “Miss Malroy has disappeared from Belle Plain, and Hannibal has gone with her!”

“Where have they gone?” asked Mahaffy, and his long jaw dropped.

“Would to God I had an answer ready for that question, Solomon!” answered the judge, with a melancholy shake of the head. He gazed down on his friend with an air of large tolerance. “I am going to Belle Plain, but you are too drunk. Sleep it off, Solomon, and join me when your brain is clear and your legs steady.”

Mahaffy jerked out an oath, and lifting himself off his chair, stood erect. He snatched up his hat.

“Stuff your pistols into your pockets, and come on, Price!” he said, and stalked toward the door.

He flitted up the street, and the judge puffed and panted in his wake. They gained the edge of the village without speech.

“There is mystery and rascality here!” said the judge.

“What do you know, Price, and where did you hear this?” Mahaffy shot the question back over his shoulder.

“At Pegloe's, the Belle Plain overseer had just fetched the news into town.”

Again they were silent, all their energies being absorbed by the physical exertion they were making. The road danced before their burning eyes, it seemed to be uncoiling itself serpentwise with hideous undulations. Mr. Mahaffy was conscious that the judge, of whom he caught a blurred vision now at his right side, now at his left, was laboring painfully in the heat and dust, the breath whistling from between his parched lips.

“You're just ripe for apoplexy, Price!” he snarled, moderating his pace.

“Go on,” said the judge, with stolid resolution.

Two miles out of the village they came to a roadside spring, here they paused for an instant. Mahaffy scooped up handfuls of the clear water and sucked it down greedily. The judge dropped on his stomach and buried his face in the tiny pool, gulping up great thirsty swallows. After a long breathless instant he stood erect, with drops of moisture clinging to his nose and eyebrows. Mahaffy was a dozen paces down the road, hurrying forward again with relentless vigor. The judge shuffled after him. The tracks they left in the dust crossed and re-crossed the road, but presently the slanting lines of their advance straightened, the judge gained and held a fixed place at Mahaffy's right, a step or so in the rear. His oppulent fancy began to deal with the situation.

“If anything happens to the child, the man responsible for it would better never been born—I'll pursue him with undiminished energy from this moment forth!” he panted.

“What could happen to him, Price?” asked Mahaffy.

“God knows, poor little lad!”

“Will you shut up!” cried Mahaffy savagely.

“Solomon!”

“Why do you go building on that idea? Why should any one harm him—what earthly purpose—”

“I tell you, Solomon, we are the pivotal point in a vast circle of crime. This is a blow at me—this is revenge, sir, neither more nor less! They have struck at me through the boy, it is as plain as day.”

“What did the overseer say?”

“Just that they found Miss Malroy gone from Belle Plain this morning, and the boy with her.”

“This is like you, Price! How do you know they haven't spent the night at some neighbor's?”

“The nearest neighbor is five or six miles distant. Miss Malroy and Hannibal were seen along about dusk in the grounds at Belle Plain, do you mean to tell me you consider it likely that they set out on foot at that hour, and without a word to any one, to make a visit?” inquired the judge; but Mahaffy did not contend for this point.

“What are you going to do first, Price?”

“Have a look over the grounds, and talk with the slaves.”

“Where's the brother—wasn't he at Belle Plain last night?”

“It seems he went to Memphis yesterday.”

They plodded forward in silence; now and again they were passed by some man on horseback whose destination was the same as their own, and then at last they caught sight of Belle Plain in its grove of trees.

All work on the plantation had stopped, and the hundreds of slaves—men, women and children—were gathered about the house. Among these moved the members of the dominant race. The judge would have attached himself to the first group, but he heard a whispered question, and the answer,

“Miss Malroy's lawyer.”

Clearly it was not for him to mix with these outsiders, these curiosity seekers. He crossed the lawn to the house, and mounted the steps. In the doorway was big Steve, while groups of men stood about in the hall, the hum of busy purposeless talk pervading the place. The judge frowned. This was all wrong.

“Has Mr. Ware returned from Memphis?” he asked of Steve.

“No, Sah; not yet.”

“Then show me into the library,” said the judge with bland authority, surrendering his hat to the butler. “Come along, Mahaffy!” he added. They entered the library, and the judge motioned Steve to close the door. “Now, boy, you'll kindly ask those people to withdraw—you may say it is Judge Price's orders. Allow no one to enter the house unless they have business with me, or as I send for them—you understand? After you have cleared the house, you may bring me a decanter of corn whisky—stop a bit—you may ask the sheriff to step here.”

“Yes, Sah.” And Steve withdrew.

The judge drew an easy-chair up to the flat-topped desk that stood in the center of the room, and seated himself.

“Are you going to make this the excuse for another drunk, Price? If so, I feel the greatest contempt for you,” said Mahaffy sternly.

The judge winced at this.

“You have made a regrettable choice of words, Solomon,” he urged gently.

“Where's your feeling for the boy?”

“Here!” said the judge, with an eloquent gesture, resting his hand on his heart.

“If you let whisky alone, I'll believe you, otherwise what I have said must stand.”

The door opened, and the sheriff slouched into the room. He was chewing a long wheat straw, and his whole appearance was one of troubled weakness.

“Morning,” he said briefly.

“Sit down, Sheriff,” and the judge indicated a meek seat for the official in a distant corner. “Have you learned anything?” he asked.

The sheriff shook his head.

“What you turning all these neighbors out of doors for?” he questioned.

“We don't want people tracking in and out the house, Sheriff. Important evidence may be destroyed. I propose examining the slaves first—does that meet with your approval?”

“Oh, I've talked with them, they don't know nothing,” said the sheriff. “No one don't know nothing.”

“Please God, we may yet put our fingers on some villain who does,” said the judge.

Outside it was noised about that judge Price had taken matters in hand—he was the old fellow who had been warned to keep his mouth shut, and who had never stopped talking since. A crowd collected beyond the library windows and feasted its eyes on the back of this hero's bald head.

One by one the house servants were ushered into the judge's presence. First he interrogated little Steve, who had gone to Miss Betty's door that morning to rouse her, as was his custom. Next he examined Betty's maid; then the cook, and various house servants, who had nothing especial to tell, but told it at considerable length; and lastly big Steve.

“Stop a bit,” the judge suddenly interrupted the butler in the midst of his narrative. “Does the overseer always come up to the house the first thing in the morning?”

“Why, not exactly, Sah, but he come up this mo'ning, Sah. He was talking to me at the back of the house, when the women run out with the word that Missy was done gone away.”

“He joined in the search?”

“Yes, Sah.''

“When was Miss Malroy seen last?” asked the judge.

“She and the young gemman you fotched heah were seen in the gyarden along about sundown. I seen them myself.”

“They had had supper?”

“Yes, Sah.”

“Who sleeps here?”

“Just little Steve and three of the women, they sleeps at the back of the house, Sah.''

“No sounds were heard during the night?”

“No, Sah.”

“I'll see the overseer—what's his name?—Hicks? Suppose you go for him!” said the judge, addressing the sheriff.

The sheriff was gone from the room only a few moments, and returned with the information that Hicks was down at the bayou, which was to be dragged.

“Why?” inquired the judge.

“Hicks says Miss Malroy's been acting mighty queer ever since Charley Norton was shot—distracted like! He says he noticed it, and that Tom Ware noticed it.”

“How does he explain the boy's disappearance?”

“He reckons she throwed herself in, and the boy tried to drag her out, like he naturally would, and got drawed in.”

“Humph! I'll trouble Mr. Hicks to step here,” said the judge quietly.

“There's Mr. Carrington and a couple of strangers outside who've been asking about Miss Malroy and the boy, seems like the strangers knowed her and him back yonder in No'th Carolina,” said the sheriff as he turned away.

“I'll see them.” The sheriff went from the room and the judge dismissed the servants.

“Well, what do you think, Price?” asked Mahaffy anxiously when they were alone.

“Rubbish! Take my word for it, Solomon, this blow is leveled at me. I have been too forward in my attempts to suppress the carnival of crime that is raging through west Tennessee. You'll observe that Miss Malroy disappeared at a moment when the public is disposed to think she has retained me as her legal adviser, probably she will be set at liberty when she agrees to drop the matter of Norton's murder. As for the boy, they'll use him to compel my silence and inaction.” The judge took a long breath. “Yet there remains one point where the boy is concerned that completely baffles me. If we knew just a little more of his antecedents it might cause me to make a startling and radical move.”

Mahaffy was clearly not impressed by the vague generalities in which the judge was dealing.

“There you go, Price, as usual, trying to convince yourself that you are the center of everything!” he said, in a tone of much exasperation. “Let's get down to business! What does this man Hicks mean by hinting at suicide? You saw Miss Malroy yesterday?”

“You have put your finger on a point of some significance,” said the judge. “She bore evidence of the shock and loss she had sustained; aside from that she was quite as she has always been.”

“Well, what do you want to see Hicks for? What do you expect to learn from him?”

“I don't like his insistence on the idea that Miss Malroy is mentally unbalanced. It's a question of some delicacy—the law, sir, fully recognizes that. It seems to me he is overanxious to account for her disappearance in a manner that can compromise no one.”

Here they were interrupted by the opening of the door, and big Steve admitted Carrington and the two men of whom the sheriff had spoken.

“A shocking condition of affairs, Mr. Carrington!” said the judge by way of greeting.

“Yes,” said Carrington shortly.

“You left these parts some time ago, I believe?” continued the judge.

“The day before Norton was shot. I had started home for Kentucky. I heard of his death when I reached Randolph on the second bluff,” explained Carrington, from whose cheeks the weather-beaten bloom had faded. He rested his hand on the edge of the desk and turned to the men who had followed him into the room. “This is the gentleman you wish to see,” he said, and stepped to one of the windows; it overlooked the terraces where he had said good-by to Betty scarcely a week before.

The two men had paused by the door. They now advanced. One was gaunt and haggard, his face disfigured by a great red scar, the other was a shockheaded individual who moved with a shambling gait. Both carried rifles and both were dressed in coarse homespun.

“Morning, sir,” said the man with the scar. “Yancy's my name, and this gentleman 'lows he'd rather be known now as Mr. Cavendish.”

The judge started to his feet.

“Bob Yancy?” he cried.

“Yes, sir, that's me.” The judge passed nimbly around the desk and shook the Scratch Hiller warmly by the hand. “Where's my nevvy, sir—what's all this about him and Miss Betty?” Yancy's soft drawl was suddenly eager.

“Please God we'll recover him soon!” said the judge.

By the window Carrington moved impatiently. No harm could come to the boy, but Betty—a shudder went through him.

“They've stolen him.” Yancy spoke with conviction. “I reckon they've started back to No'th Carolina with him—only that don't explain what's come of Miss Betty, does it?” and he dropped rather helplessly into a chair.

“Bob are just getting off a sick bed. He's been powerful porely in consequence of having his head laid open and then being throwed into the Elk River, where I fished him out,” explained Cavendish, who still continued to regard the judge with unmixed astonishment, first cocking his shaggy head on one side and then on the other, his bleached eyes narrowed to a slit. Now and then he favored the austere Mahaffy with a fleeting glance. He seemed intuitively to understand the comradeship of their degradation.

“Mr. Cavendish fetched me here on his raft. We tied up to the sho' this morning. It was there we met Mr. Carrington—I'd knowed him slightly back yonder in No'th Carolina,” continued Yancy. “He said I'd find Hannibal with you. I was counting a heap on seeing my nevvy.”

Carrington, no longer able to control himself, swung about on his heel.

“What's been done?” he asked, with fierce repression. “What's going to be done? Don't you know that every second is precious?”

“I am about to conclude my investigations, sir,” said the judge with dignity.

Carrington stepped to the door. After all, what was there to expect of these men? Whatever their interest, it was plainly centered in the boy. He passed out into the hall.

As the door closed on him the judge turned again to the Scratch Hiller.

“Mr. Yancy, Mr. Mahaffy and I hold your nephew in the tenderest regard, he has been our constant companion ever since you were lost to him. In this crisis you may rely upon us; we are committed to his recovery, no matter what it involves.” The judge's tone was one of unalterable resolution.

“I reckon you-all have been mighty good and kind to him,” said Yancy huskily.

“We have endeavored to be, Mr. Yancy—indeed I had formed the resolution legally to adopt him should you not come to claim him. I should have given him my name, and made him my heir. His education has already begun, under my supervision,” and the judge, remembering the high use to which he had dedicated one of Pegloe's trade labels, fairly glowed with philanthropic fervor.

“Think of that!” murmured Yancy softly. He was deeply moved. So was Mr. Cavendish, who was gifted with a wealth of ready sympathy. He thrust out a hardened hand to the judge.

“Shake!” he said. “You're a heap better than you look.” A thin ripple of laughter escaped Mahaffy, but the judge accepted Chills and Fever's proffered hand. He understood that here was a simple genuine soul.

“Price, isn't it important for us to know why Mr. Yancy thinks the boy has been taken back to North Carolina?” said Mahaffy.

“Just what kin is Hannibal to you, Mr. Yancy?” asked the judge resuming his seat.

“Strictly speaking, he ain't none. That he come to live with me is all owing to Mr. Crenshaw, who's a good man when left to himself, but he's got a wife, so a body may say he never is left to himself,” began Yancy; and then briefly he told the story of the woman and the child much as he had told it to Bladen at the Barony the day of General Quintard's funeral.

The judge, his back to the light and his face in shadow, rested his left elbow on the desk and with his chin sunk in his palm, followed the Scratch Hiller's narrative with the closest attention.

“And General Quintard never saw him—never manifested any interest in him?” the words came slowly from the judge's lips, he seemed to gulp down something that rose in his throat. “Poor little lad!” he muttered, and again, “Poor little lad!”

“Never once, sir. He told the slaves to keep him out of his sight. We-all wondered, fo' you know how niggers will talk. We thought maybe he was some kin to the Quintards, but we couldn't figure out how. The old general never had but one child and she had been dead fo' years. The child couldn't have been hers no how.” Yancy paused.

The judge drummed idly on the desk.

“What implacable hate—what iron pride!” he murmured, and swept his hand across his eyes. Absorbed and aloof, he was busy with his thoughts that spanned the waste of years, years that seemed to glide before him in review, each bitter with its hideous memories of shame and defeat. Then from the smoke of these lost battles emerged the lonely figure of the child as he had seen him that June night. His ponderous arm stiffened where it rested on the desk, he straightened up in his chair and his face assumed its customary expression of battered dignity, while a smile at once wistful and tender hovered about his lips.

“One other question,” he said. “Until this man Murrell appeared you had no trouble with Bladen? He was content that you should keep the child—your right to Hannibal was never challenged?”

“Never, sir. All my troubles began about that time.”

“Murrell belongs in these parts,” said the judge.

“I'd admire fo' to meet him,” said Yancy quietly.

The judge grinned.

“I place my professional services at your disposal,” he said. “Yours is a clear case of felonious assault.”

“No, it ain't, sir—I look at it this-a-ways; it's a clear case of my giving him the damnedest sort of a body beating!”

“Sir,” said the judge, “I'll hold your hat while you are about it!”

Hicks had taken his time in responding to the judge's summons, but now his step sounded in the hall and throwing open the door he entered the room. Whether consciously or not he had acquired something of that surly, forbidding manner which was characteristic of his employer. A curt nod of the head was his only greeting.

“Will you sit down?” asked the judge. Hicks signified by another movement of the head that he would not. “This is a very dreadful business!” began the judge softly.

“Ain't it?” agreed Hicks. “What you got to say to me?” he added petulantly.

“Have you started to drag the bayou?” asked the judge. Hicks nodded. “That was your idea?” suggested the judge.

“No, it wa'n't,” objected Hicks quickly. “But I said she had been actin' like she was plumb distracted ever since Charley Norton got shot—”

“How?” inquired the judge, arching his eyebrows. Hicks was plainly disturbed by the question.

“Sort of out of her head. Mr. Ware seen it, too—”

“He spoke of it?”

“Yes, sir; him and me discussed it together.”

The judge regarded Hicks long and intently and in, silence. His magnificent mind was at work. If Betty had been distraught he had not observed any sign of it the previous day. If Ware were better informed as to her true mental state why had he chosen this time to go to Memphis?

“I suppose Mr. Ware asked you to keep an eye on Miss Malroy while he was away from home?” said the judge. Hicks, suspicious of the drift of his questioning, made no answer. “I suppose you told the house servants to keep her under observation?” continued the judge.

“I don't talk to no niggers,” replied Hicks, “except to give 'em my orders.”

“Well, did you give them that order?”

“No, I didn't.”

The sudden and hurried entrance of big Steve brought the judge's examination of Mr. Hicks to a standstill.

“Mas'r, you know dat 'ar coachman George—the big black fellow dat took you into town las' evenin'? I jes' been down at Shanty Hill whar Milly, his wife, is carryin' on something scandalous 'cause George ain't never come home!” Steve was laboring under intense excitement, but he ignored the presence of the overseer and addressed himself to Slocum Price.

“Well, what of that?” cried Hicks quickly.

“Thar warn't no George, mind you, Mas'r, but dar was his team in de stable this mo'ning and lookin' mighty nigh done up with hard driving.”

“Yes.” interrupted Hicks uneasily; “put a pair of lines in a nigger's hands and he'll run any team off its legs!”

“An' the kerriage all scratched up from bein' thrashed through the bushes,” added Steve.

“There's a nigger for you!” said Hicks. “She took the rascal out of the field, dressed him like he was a gentleman and pampered him up, and now first chance he gets he runs off!”

“Ah!” said the judge softly. “Then you knew this?”

“Of course I knew—wa'n't it my business to know? I reckon he was off skylarking, and when he'd seen the mess he'd made, the trifling fool took to the woods. Well, he catches it when I lay hands on him!”

“Do you know when and under what circumstances the team was stabled, Mr. Hicks?” inquired the judge.

“No, I don't, but I reckon it must have been along after dark,” said Hicks unwillingly. “I seen to the feeding just after sundown like I always do, then I went to supper,” Hicks vouchsafed to explain.

“And no one saw or heard the team drive in?”

“Not as I know of,” said Hicks.

“Mas'r Ca'ington's done gone off to get a pack of dawgs—he 'lows hit's might' important to find what's come of George,” said Steve.

Hicks started violently at this piece of news.

“I reckon he'll have to travel a right smart distance to find a pack of dogs,” he muttered. “I don't know of none this side of Colonel Bates' down below Girard.”

The judge was lost in thought. He permitted an interval of silence to elapse in which Hicks' glance slid round in a furtive circle.

“When did Mr. Ware set out for Memphis?” asked the judge at length.

“Early yesterday. He goes there pretty often on business.”

“You talked with Mr. Ware before he left?” Hicks nodded. “Did he speak of Miss Malroy?” Hicks shook his head. “Did you see her during the afternoon?”

“No—maybe you think these niggers ain't enough to keep a man stirring?” said Hicks uneasily and with a scowl. The judge noticed both the uneasiness and the scowl.

“I should imagine they would absorb every moment of your time, Mr. Hicks,” he agreed affably.

“A man's got to be a hog for work to hold a job like mine,” said Hicks sourly.

“But it came to your notice that Miss Malroy has been in a disturbed mental state ever since Mr. Norton's murder? I am interested in this point, Mr. Hicks, because your experience is so entirely at variance with my own. It was my privilege to see and speak with her yesterday afternoon; I was profoundly impressed by her naturalness and composure.” The judge smiled, then he leaned forward across the desk. “What were you doing up here early this morning—hasn't a hog for work like you got any business of his own at that hour?” The judge's tone was suddenly offensive.

“Look here, what right have you got to try and pump me?” cried Hicks.

For no discernible reason Mr. Cavendish spat on his palms.

“Mr. Hicks,” said the judge, urbane and gracious, “I believe in frankness.”

“Sure,” agreed Hicks, mollified by the judge's altered tone.

“Therefore I do not hesitate to say that I consider you a damned scoundrel!” concluded the judge.

Mr. Cavendish, accepting the judge's ultimatum as something which must debar Hicks from all further consideration, and being, as he was, exceedingly active and energetic by nature, if one passed over the various forms of gainful industry, uttered a loud whoop and threw himself on the overseer. There was a brief struggle and Hicks went down with the Earl of Lambeth astride of him; then from his boot leg that knightly soul flashed a horn-handled tickler of formidable dimensions.

The judge, Yancy, and Mahaffy, sprang from their chairs. Mr. Mahaffy was plainly shocked at the spectacle of Mr. Cavendish's lawless violence. Yancy was disturbed too, but not by the moral aspects of the case; he was doubtful as to just how his friend's act would appeal to the judge. He need not have been distressed on that score, since the judge's one idea was to profit by it. With his hands on his knees he was now bending above the two men.

“What do you want to know, judge?” cried Cavendish, panting from his exertions. “I'll learn this parrot to talk up!”

“Hicks,” said the judge, “it is in your power to tell us a few things we are here to find out.” Hicks looked up into the judge's face and closed his lips grimly. “Mr. Cavendish, kindly let him have the point of that large knife where he'll feel it most!” ordered the judge.

“Talk quick!” said Cavendish with a ferocious scowl. “Talk—or what's to hinder me slicing open your woozen?” and he pressed the blade of his knife against the overseer's throat.

“I don't know anything about Miss Betty,” said Hicks in a sullen whisper.

“Maybe you don't, but what do you know about the boy?” Hicks was silent, but he was grateful for the judge's question. From Tom Ware he had learned of Fentress' interest in the boy. Why should he shelter the colonel at risk to himself? “If you please, Mr. Cavendish!” said the judge quietly nodding toward the knife.

“You didn't ask me about him,” said Hicks quickly.

“I do now,” said the judge.

“He was here yesterday.”

“Mr. Cavendish—” and again the judge glanced toward the knife.

“Wait!” cried Hicks. “You go to Colonel Fentress.”

“Let him up, Mr. Cavendish; that's all we want to mow,” said the judge.