Bud picketed the mare in the woods just off the road, not a hundred yards from the spot where Allston a few weeks before had been brought to such an abrupt and unexpected halt. Had Bud been interested he might have seen the tree still showing the scars made by Allston’s machine. But that would have been to stir him up unnecessarily. Bud trusted to the dark to keep him concealed halfway up the serpentine drive leading to the lighted bungalow, but when within reach of the light cutting a path over the grass, he swerved to the left and made a wide half-circle. From this point he worked his way more cautiously towards the kitchen. The door was open and through it he caught occasional glimpses of a figure flitting back and forth. It was Roxie. His heart, had he been blind, would have told him that. The sight spurred him on--made him resent caution. In another dozen paces he was at the door. Roxie felt his presence before she saw him. She was hanging near the stove her wet dishcloths. Her back was towards him when suddenly she swung. At sight of him she stood transfixed. In that interval he crossed the room and seized an arm. “I gut suthin’ to tell yuh,” he said. As she shrank away he added in a lower, tenser tone: “I’m _goneter_ tell yuh suthin’.” She saw then that in his other hand he held his gun. It made her afraid--but not for herself. “What’s the matter, Bud?” she asked aimlessly. “Come out hyar an’ I’ll tell yuh.” She grew suddenly cold. She shook as with the ague. Yet she followed where he led--away from the house across the fields until their voices could not be heard. “That pink-cheeked fren’ o’ yourn--I seen him t’other day.” “Mr. Allston?” she trembled. “Ef thet’s his name. I seen him in the woods a-makin’ up to Miss Wilmer.” Whatever Roxie had expected, it was no such line of attack as this. She stiffened. “Yer lie,” she choked. “I seen him in the cove a-holdin’ her hand,” he went on, quite undisturbed. “Yer lie, Bud Childers. Yer lie in your throat,” she panted. “I swear to Gawd I seen him--a-holdin’ her hand.” “What was you doin’ there?” she demanded, struggling hard against a new emotion that gripped her throat like a strangler’s hold. “What was I doin’ thar?” he repeated slowly. “What was I doin’ thar? I was passin’ by.” That was all he said, but from his voice she knew. With a spasmodic shudder she drew back a step. He followed instantly, bending closer to her ear. “I was passin’ by like I’m passin’ by here,” he said. “But I ain’t used to passin’ by.” She made no reply. What he said was true. She turned towards the house. He seized her arm again. “I left him for Miss Wilmer,” he said hoarsely. “She can have the damned honey-lapper an’ welcome. But you--I want you myself.” “Bud,” she pleaded, her breath coming in gasps. “I want you to-night--now. The mare is waitin’. I’m waitin’. But we cain’t wait long.” “What you sayin’?” “I love yer, Roxie. I’ve fixed the house all up purty fer yer.” “For me?”