As it turned out, however, Allston did find an opportunity to do a little more. When Roxie came to Wilmer with that message from Tom Culley reporting her mother’s sickness, it was already dark. Even so, had it not been for the recent advances of Bud Childers to Roxie, Wilmer would have considered the walk safe enough for the girl. As it was she was a bit worried. Voicing her fears to her father, Allston overheard. “I’ll go along with her,” he suggested on the instant. Howe demurred a moment. “I don’t suppose there’s any danger, but those mountain folk are a queer lot.” “What do you mean?” “If Childers should be along the way--” He paused a moment, and then added: “He’s pretty free with a gun.” “That’s simple,” answered Allston. “I’ll carry one myself.” “I don’t imagine you’ll need it, but it might be as well to have it.” So Allston thrust his automatic in his pocket and immediately forgot it. He joined Roxie and she led the way from the open valley to the winding, rocky road which ran along the thickly wooded mountain-side. The hush of the early night was here. The great symphony of the forest’s nocturnal players had not yet begun their overture, awaiting the last bar of the catbird’s vesper song. High above the trees a full moon furnished a silver light where it could get through. Roxie was as sure-footed as he, but instinctively he steadied her with his hand. She was, if anything, less steady after that than before. It was as though she became a little dizzy. “Am I going too fast for you?” he asked. “No, sir.” Yet twice she stumbled and would have fallen had he not caught her. “Careful there,” he warned. “It’s a rough old road.” So they came to the bend. Rounding it, the girl was the first to see the dim figure of a man on horseback a few paces before them. Against the impenetrable background of foliage, the sharply drawn contour of the rider’s face stood out like the countenance of a monk from a black cowl. It was Bud. She could see him only dimly, but she knew his eyes had left her to question the man by her side. And she caught the slow, stealthy movement of his hand creeping back to his hip. CHAPTER V Allston, at first, was not inclined to take the situation seriously. The scene, like an act of melodrama, was not sufficiently motivated to convince him. Here was a dark, scowling figure of a man on horseback planted squarely in the middle of the moonlit road--a villain made to order. Clinging to his arm, Allston felt the tight grip of Roxie’s warm fingers--the heroine if one wished so to consider her. And he--well, it looked as though he were cast for the part of hero. But he did not know his lines. Had this been France and a year ago, he would have been quick enough to react to the danger. The world was at war then and he was tuned up to it. Often enough on night patrol he had walked straight into the heart of even grimmer drama than this and played his rôle like a veteran, with life the penalty of a miscue.