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"I am his clerk." In the car a flash of joy and then great decorum.

Through the shifting colonnades of pine, a hundred yards in front of us, came two horsemen in the same blue-gray of the pair beside me. "Whoever he is," I said, "that gray he's riding is his second best, or it's borrowed," for his mount, though good, was no match for him.

"Mis-ter Smith! you wrote that?--to-day! Wh'--who is she?"

I stepped back, heaving. "Who and what are you? Who and what are you?"

"Oh, I don't doubt you have; though I didn't know but it might be Charlie Toliver or something."

Five, ten, fifteen minutes dragged by. Counting them helped me to lie still. Then I caught another pregnant sound, a mumbling of male voices in the adjoining front room. I waited a bit, hearkening laboriously, and then ever so gradually I slid from the bed, put on everything except my boots, and moved by inches to the door between the two rooms. It was very thin; "a good sounding-board," thought I as I listened for life or death and hoped my ear was the only one against it.

"Good-morning," I murmured.

"His name is Oliver."

"Whose hand was it; that fellow's, yonder?" Oliver was several paces away.

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