"So to-morrow is the day of the trial, Miss Barlow?"

Mrs. Riley was pinning the bandage on Walter's neck, while Emily buttoned his jacket. She and the quondam Whistler had become fast friends, especially since the day of the struggle in Shagarach's office, and now that his burns were healing and he was able to get out they had arranged a Sunday afternoon excursion to Hemlock grove, with some vague hope of visiting the site of the demolished hut, if Walter's strength could carry him so far. There would be no lack of guides, for the spot had already become locally famous.

"Yes," answered Emily, "the talesmen have been sifted down to twelve at last."

"May the good Lord put mercy in their hearts," prayed Mrs. Riley.

"I wish it was a jury of ladies," said Walter.

"Why, ladies are never selected for the jury," cried his mother.

"Jurywomen is a word not yet included in the dictionaries," smiled Emily.

"But they are all so kind," said Walter simply, but in such a way that his mother and Emily might each take half of the compliment. The bright slum boy was already losing all trace of his plebeian associations, as the innate aristocracy of his nature asserted itself. How luckily he was placed, if he could have foreseen. To begin at the lower-most round of the ladder, but with the unconquerable instinct in him to climb; and so at last, on the topmost round, to have the whole of life for a retrospect.

Mrs. Riley bade them a proud good-by and watched them from her window boarding the car. The down-town ride on a Sunday is always curious, for the desertion of the usually crowded streets gives them a foreign appearance. Emily was commenting on this when Walter called her attention to something in the sky.

"Look, it's a man," he said, pointing almost vertically upward.

"Where?" she asked, leaning forward.

"On the top of the Amory building. He is calling for help."

The Amory building was the tallest structure in the city, the tenants in the sixteenth story enjoying a view that swept in the entire harbor and flattened the men walking in the avenues below to the dimensions of crawling flies.

"We can change cars here, Walter. Let us get off and see."

From the sidewalk Emily could distinguish the minute figure of a man leaning over the parapet around the roof, and shouting through his hands to attract attention.

"Perhaps it is on fire," she said in alarm, framing the thought that lay uppermost in her mind.

"I think he wants to get down," suggested Walter, although not a word of the man's vociferations could be heard.

"Let us speak to the policeman," said Emily, just as a large hat came sailing down on Walter's head. It crossed her mind that the broad brim had a familiar look. The patrolman followed her index finger with his glance and presently there was a knot of passers-by doing likewise. Then the knot grew to a crowd, and the crowd to a multitude. Meanwhile the officer had hunted up the janitor of the building and both entered through the great carved doors. About five minutes later they came down, with a heavily laden, portly gentleman, who seemed taken aback when the crowd hurrahed him.

"Dr. Silsby!" cried Emily. He looked about in surprise.

"Miss Barlow," he said, shaking his head, "here's a to-do. I suppose you'll go right over and tell that Rob."

"Tell him what?"

"Tell him I got lost in the heart of the city I was born in," grumbled the botanist so that she could hardly help laughing. "Well, what are you sniggling at?" he shouted at the crowd, who fell back a little at this.

"And were you lost up there?"

"Haven't had a bite to eat since yesterday noon. Made a call on that ninny, Hodgkins, about his confounded will. Judge is going to decide against him and we'll have our academia after all."

"Good! Good!" cried Emily, clapping her hands.

"Office on the sixteenth floor. Ninny was out. Took my specimens up to the roof. Got worked up. Scribbled notes for my new lecture on——"

"I know. Rob told me. On the beneficent activity of the great horned owl. How interesting!"

Dr. Silsby glared.

"Janitor missed me. Didn't notice the time. Locked out. Slept four hours all night, and now I'm hoarse from bawling ten. What's the matter with Sleepy Hollow? Are they all in bed?"

"Why, this is Sunday morning," explained Emily, repressing her merriment.

"They ought to have ladders up there, so a man could climb down," grumbled Dr. Silsby.

Walter thought this a somewhat unreasonable demand.

"You might have descended by the mail chute," said Emily, laughing outright, "and then the postman would have collected you just before breakfast."

The learned doctor made no reply, so they left him shuffling away in search of a restaurant.

"I do hope Judge Dunder will allow the will," she said; and it took the whole ride to explain the why of this hope to her eager auditor.

At Woodlawn they were directed to Hemlock grove and wandered among its dark trees, peace-breathing in themselves, but haunted for them by the vague pervasive shadow of a tragedy. The hut was too far for Walter's strength, so they turned off at an angle, following a footpath which they knew would lead to some road. Once or twice they heard a murmur of voices, seeming to come from the left. It was very deep and indistinct and not unlike the mooing of a cow. But her bell would have tinkled if it had really been a stray tenant of the milk-shed.

"What is it, Walter?" asked Emily. It had sounded again, this time more humanly and close to their ears. They had been moving toward it unawares.

Walter only clutched her arm in answer.

"Look!" he said, and she saw his eyes white with distension of the lids. "It is the oaf."

Through a parting in the boughs Emily saw the sight. There was a little cemetery near by, unpretending but neat with scattered headstones. In the midst of it, kneeling with his forehead bared and his eyes up-lifted, was the human monster who had woven himself into their life so terribly. What was he doing? Should she run? Her first impulse was to fly, but a fascination held her. The oaf's face was averted and they were screened from his gaze.

Looked at now, the creature's countenance was less repulsive than she had thought. Emily had only seen it convulsed with murderous passion, and those who had described it to her had beheld it under similar circumstances. Yet at best it was horribly misshapen.

"Is he crying?" asked Walter. Strange to say, the oaf seemed to be shedding tears and the quick sympathy went out from Emily's bosom, in spite of the past.

"Hark!"

Emily pulled Walter back, as he leaned forward too eagerly to catch what he was saying.

The oaf moaned in a guttural tone that swelled to its close, crescendo. Then he threw himself on the mound before which he knelt.

It was a grave. No headstone covered it. The mourners of the dead who house there were either forgetful or poor. But strange little bunches of withered wild flowers were strewn upon it. And a heap of fresher flowers lay at one side. What was the monster doing?

With his fingers he scooped out hollows in the earth, then lifted the cut daisies and buttercups he had brought, with many a late violet and honeysuckle, and laid their stalks one by one in the cavities. Holding them in place, he propped them up with the loosened earth, till all along the narrow mound there was a bloom of red and yellow and blue. Then the oaf rose and looked down upon his work, with a childish pleasure.

"Does he think they will grow that way?" asked Walter, but Emily put her finger on her lips. The oaf began muttering in a low, indistinct murmur, like one soothing a child.

Suddenly he drew his soiled hands across his brow. The streaks of earth added to his hideousness and his expression had changed. Some new current of thought was in his mind. He ground his teeth, as Walter had seen him in Shagarach's office, and roared with fists clenched at some invisible adversary.

"Run, run," called Walter, dragging Emily with him along the little footpath—on, on. They could hear their own footsteps echoed behind, but the roars did not appear to be gaining on them.

"Faster! Faster!" urged Emily, as Walter weakened. The briers scratched her dress, the boughs brushed in her face, but what were these to the monster behind them? She dared not turn, lest his fierce eyes should be glaring into hers and his grimy hands clutch at her flying hair.

"I cannot keep up," cried Walter breathing hard, when they had covered a quarter of a mile.

"Oh, Walter, try!" cried Emily, dragging him in her turn.

"I cannot. I can only walk. He is not behind us," he added. Emily slowed up and peeped around timidly. The expected image did not confront her. The woods had a less lonely look here, but they were perfectly still.

"Have we escaped him?" she said, all flushed and out of breath. Without the wings of fear, she could not have run a third of the distance.

Walter held his breath to listen before he answered. There was not a stir in the woods save the sighing of the leaves.

"Let us walk on fast," he said, and Emily was glad to moderate her pace. But they had not proceeded twenty steps, when again she started off, dragging Walter by the hand. This time the sound was on their right. The oaf had crossed the path and was tearing through the woods. With the advantage of the smooth path they might outstrip him and get to the road, where succor could be had.

"Oh, I cannot go farther," cried Emily, fainting. "Leave me, Walter, and bring help as soon as you can." The elastic sinews of the boy had recovered their strength and he was now the fresher of the two.

"Only a little farther, Miss Barlow. I can see the road through the trees."

The pursuer seemed to have slowed his own pace to a walk. Once they caught a glimpse of his form. He was not aiming at them straight but slantingly toward the road, as if he would head them off. At present he was almost abreast and gaining.

"There is the road and a cottage," said Walter, but the pursuer was ahead of them now, running swiftly. They could see him leap the wall only ten paces off, just as they emerged from the footpath. Bewildered and spent, Emily turned the wrong way and ran straight into the arms of Mr. Arthur Kennedy Foxhall.

"Turnpike toll!" exclaimed the manikin, deliriously prolonging the accidental embrace, while Emily strove to tear herself away in a flurry of amazement, horror and disgust.

"Let her alone!" cried Walter, clutching at Kennedy's neck. But the manikin took no account of the boy, merely cuffing him over the ears, and endeavoring to force a kiss upon Emily.

"Forgive me, Emily—Miss Barlow," he said at last, while she stood flaming like a rose with indignation. "Forgive me if I press my suit too ardently——"

But he was not afforded an opportunity to continue his amorous speech. Walter Riley possessed a spirit which rose against cuffing. Weak and weary as he was, he drew off after a moment's survey, to get the import of the conversation, and sent the manikin spinning with a blow that brought blood drops from his nose. Kennedy felt the trickling organ in momentary confusion, but before his idol he could not show the white feather.

Whack! Whack! He brought his cane—bulldog end for a handle—down on the boy's shoulder, neck and head—bursting the bandages over his still acutely tender burns. Walter clinched, but Kennedy threw him off and continued his caning. Even Emily's intercession only brought her a smart rap over the fingers with which she tried to grasp his weapon.

"You brute!" she exclaimed, and threw herself between Kennedy and the boy. But help from another quarter was at hand. A tall, lithe form vaulted a neighboring wall and the swish of a horsewhip cut the air. It must have cut something else, for Kennedy hopped and turned, and presently was capering with as much agility as if the ground were redhot iron. Emily could hear the repeated swishes and the manikin's supplications, but she did not look up. She was stroking Walter's forehead. The boy had fainted in her arms.

"It's me, Harry. It's Kennedy. Don't you know me?"

This cry caused her to turn.

"It's a coward. Run."

Emily had heard the voice only once before, in that eventful ride to Hillsborough; but she would have known Harry Arnold instantly from his photograph. How broad-chested he was! How superb! Yet there was something feverish in his excitement now. He came toward her, raising his hat.

"I have to apologize for a slight acquaintance with that blackguard, which led me to refuse at first to credit his conduct. Otherwise I might have been of assistance earlier."

"Slight acquaintance? You owe me twelve hundred and by George you'll pay it," snarled Kennedy, moving away. Harry never turned.

"The boy has fainted. He must come up to the house."

The "cottage" in view, then, was the Arnold house. A carriage stood in front of the terrace at the head of the gravel drive which led up from the turnpike. Harry had probably just arrived home from an afternoon spin through the suburbs.

"Thank you, Mr. Arnold——" Emily stopped, but the mischief was out. Harry had lifted the unconscious boy tenderly in his strong arms and was carrying him up the drive. He turned and smiled, showing his beautiful teeth, but, seeing Emily's confusion, did not speak the words that were on his lips. Inside the house he called for Indigo.

"Some wine," he ordered.

"And a little sweet oil, if you have it," added Emily; for the neck bandage had been torn away and the vitriol burn was bleeding from one of Kennedy's blows.

"This is Walter Riley," said Emily, at last recovering from her embarrassment, "Mr. Shagarach's clerk, who was assaulted about ten days ago."

She studied Harry's face as she bathed the tender part with the sweet oil and poor, sick-eyed Walter revived under the wine. But there was no expression other than one of surprise crossed with sympathy.

"And yourself, may I ask?"

"I am Miss Barlow."

Harry's astonishment reached a climax at this, but he was too well bred to display it.

"I am delighted to have you for my guest, Miss Barlow. It is unfortunate that my mother is not at home. We have both admired your efforts in behalf of Rob. And Miss March was just speaking of you."

By the time that Walter was ready to go home, Emily had fixed with feminine absoluteness her opinion about Harry's innocence.

But then she was under a heavy debt to Harry. He had rid her once for all of the impertinences of Mr. Arthur Kennedy Foxhall.