The Judge got up, resenting the other's tone. He had also a half-formed resolution to assert his independence, for he had received certain assurances from Trevison with regard to his past which had impressed him--and still impressed him. "I refuse to be questioned by you, sir--especially in this manner! I do not purpose to take further--" The Judge felt Corrigan's fingers at his throat, and gasped with horror, throwing up his hands to ward them off, failed, and heard Corrigan's laugh as the fingers gripped his throat and held. When the Judge came to, it was with an excruciatingly painful struggle that left him shrinking and nerveless, lying in a corner, blinking at the light of a kerosene lamp. Corrigan sat on the edge of a flat-topped desk watching him with an ugly, appraising, speculative grin. It was as though the man were mentally gambling on his chances to recover from the throttling. "Well," he said when the Judge at last struggled and sat up; "how do you like it? You'll get more if you don't talk fast and straight! Who wrote that letter, from Dry Bottom?" Neither judicial dignity or resolutions of independence could resist the threatened danger of further violence that shone from Corrigan's eyes, and the Judge whispered gaspingly: "Trevison." "I thought so! Now, be careful how you answer this. What did Trevison want in the courthouse?" "The original record of the land transfers." "Did he get it?" Corrigan's voice was dangerously even, and the Judge squirmed and coughed before he spoke the hesitating word that was an admission of his deception: "I told him--where--it was." Paralyzed with fear, the Judge watched Corrigan slip off the desk and approach him. He got to his feet and raised his hands to shield his throat as the big man stopped in front of him. "Don't, Corrigan--don't, for God's sake!" "Bah!" said the big man. He struck, venomously. An instant later he put out the light and stepped down into the gray dawn, locking the door of the shanty behind him and not looking back. CHAPTER XXVI THE ASHES