Mrs. Bishop had not spoken until now, standing in the shadows of the others as if bewildered by what seemed a mocking impossibility. “Is it our money--is it our'n?” she finally found voice to say. “Oh, is it, Pole?” “Yes, 'm,” replied Pole. “It's yo'rn.” He produced a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to Miller. “Heer's Craig's order on his wife fer it, an' in it he acknowledges it's the cash deposited by Mr. Bishop. He won't give me no trouble. I've got 'im fixed. He 'll leave Darley in the mornin'. He's afeerd this 'll git out an' he 'll be lynched.” Alan was profoundly moved. He transferred his gaze from the money to Pole's face, and leaned towards him. “You did it out of friendship for me,” he said, his voice shaking. “That's what I did it fer, Alan, an' I wish I could do it over agin. When I laid hold o' that wad an' knowed it was the thing you wanted more'n anything else, I felt like flyin'.” “Tell us all about it, Baker,” said Miller, wrapping up the stack of bills. “All right,” said Pole, but Mrs. Bishop interrupted him. “Wait fer Alfred,” she said, her voice rising and cracking in delight. “Wait; I 'll run find 'im.” She went out through the dining-room towards the stables, calling her husband at every step. “Alfred, oh, Alfred!” “Heer!” she heard him call out from one of the stables. She leaned over the fence opposite the closed door, behind which she had heard his voice. “Oh, Alfred!” she called, “come out, quick! I've got news fer you--big, big news!” She heard him grumbling as he emptied some ears of corn into the trough of the stall containing Alan' s favorite horse, and then with a growl he emerged into the starlight. “That fool nigger only give Alan's hoss six ears o' corn,” he fumed. “I know, beca'se I counted the cobs; the hoss had licked the trough clean, an' gnawed the ends o' the cobs. The idea o' starvin' my stock right before my--” “Oh, Alfred, what _do_ you think has happened?” his wife broke in. “We've got the bank money back! Pole Baker managed somehow to get it. He's goin' to tell about it now. Come on in!” Bishop closed the door behind him; he fumbled with the chain and padlock for an instant, then he moved towards her, his lip hanging, his eyes protruding. “I 'll believe my part o' that when--” “But,” she cried, opening the gate for him to pass through, “the money's thar in the house on the table; it's been counted. I say it's thar! Don't you believe it?” The old man moved through the gate mechanically. He paused to fasten it with the iron ring over the two posts. But after that he seemed to lose the power of locomotion. He stood facing her, his features working. “I 'll believe my part o' that cat-an'-bull story when I see--” “Well, come in the house, then,” she cried. “You kin lay yore hands on it an' count it. It's a awful big pile, an' nothin' less than fifty-dollar bills.”