Part 51 (1/2)

That night after supper, when Colonel Price sat in the library gazing into the coals, Alice came in softly and put her arm about his shoulders, nestling her head against his, her cheek warm against his temple.

”You think I'm a bold, brazen creature, Father, I'm afraid,” she said.

”The farthest thing from it in this world,” said he. ”I've been thinking over it, and I know that you were right. It's inscrutable to me, Alice; I lack that G.o.d-given intuition that a woman has for such things. But I know that you were right, and time and events will justify you.”

”You remember that both Mr. Hammer and Mr. Lucas asked Joe and Mrs.

Chase a good deal about a book-agent boarder, Curtis Morgan?” said she.

”Only in the way of incidental questioning,” he said. ”Why?”

”Don't you remember him? He was that tall, fair man who sold us the _History of the World_, wasn't he?”

”Why, it is the same name,” said the colonel. ”He was a man with a quick eye and a most curious jumble of fragmentary knowledge on many subjects, from roses to rattlesnakes. Yes, I remember the fellow very well, since you speak of him.”

”Yes. And he had little fair curls growing close to his eyes,” said she.

”It's the same man, I'm certain of that.”

”Why, what difference does it make?” asked he.

”Not any--in particular--I suppose,” she sighed.

The colonel stroked her hair.

”Well, Alice, you're taking this thing too much at heart, anyhow,” he said.

Later that night, long after Joe Newbolt had wearied himself in pacing up and down his cell, with the glow of his new hope growing brighter as his legs grew heavier, Alice sat by her window, gazing with fixed eyes into the dark.

On her lips there was a name and a message, which she sent out from her heart with all the dynamic intensity of her strong, young being. A name and a message; and she sped them from her lips into the night, to roam the world like a searching wind.

CHAPTER XIX

THE SHADOW OF A DREAM

Judge Little was moving about mysteriously. It was said that he had found track of Isom's heir, and that the county was to have its second great sensation soon.

Judge Little did not confirm this report, but, like the middling-good politician that he was, he entered no denial. As long as the public is uncertain either way, its suspense is more exquisite, the pleasure of the final revelation is more sweet.

Riding home from the trial on the day that Joe made his appearance on the witness-stand, Sol Greening fell in with the judge and, with his nose primed to follow the scent of any new gossip, Sol worked his way into the matter of the will.

”Well, I hear you've got track of Isom's boy at last, Judge?” said he, pulling up close beside the judge's mount, so the sound of the horses'

feet sucking loose from the clay of the muddy road would not cheat him out of a word.

Judge Little rode a low, yellow horse, commonly called a ”buckskin” in that country. He had come to town unprovided with a rubber coat, and his long black garment of ordinary wear was damp from the blowing mists which presaged the coming rain. In order to save the skirts of it, in which the precious and mysterious pockets were, the judge had gathered them up about his waist, as an old woman gathers her skirts on wash-day.

He sat in the saddle, holding them that way with one hand, while he handled the reins with the other.

”All things are possible,” returned the judge, his tight old mouth screwed up after the words, as if more stood in the door and required the utmost vigilance to prevent them popping forth.