“Does any one know where this negro lived?” he asked heavily, a growing sense of his duty weighing upon him. “Oh, right down here a little way,” replied the farmer. “Jeff Ingalls was his name. We all know him around here. He worked for one and another of the farmers hereabouts, and don’t appear to have had such a bad record, either, except for drinkin’ a little now and then. Miss Ada recognized him, all right. You follow this road to the next crossing and turn to the right. It’s a little log house that sets back off the road--something like that one you see down the lane there, only it’s got lots o’ chips scattered about.” Davies decided to go there first, but changed his mind. It was growing late, and he thought he had better return to the village. Perhaps by now developments in connection with the sheriff or the posse were to be learned. Accordingly, he rode back and put the horse in the hands of its owner, hoping that all had been concluded and that he might learn of it here. At the principal corner much the same company was still present, arguing, fomenting, gesticulating. They seemed parts of different companies that earlier in the day had been out searching. He wondered what they had been doing since, and then decided to ingratiate himself by telling them he had just come from the Whitakers and what he had learned there of the present condition of the girl and the movements of the sheriff. Just then a young farmer came galloping up. He was coatless, hatless, breathless. “They’ve got him!” he shouted excitedly. “They’ve got him!” A chorus of “whos,” “wheres” and “whens” greeted this information as the crowd gathered about the rider. “Why, Mathews caught him up here at his own house!” exclaimed the latter, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his face. “He must ’a’ gone back there for something. Mathews’s takin’ him over to Clayton, so they think, but they don’t project he’ll ever get there. They’re after him now, but Mathews says he’ll shoot the first man that tries to take him away.” “Which way’d he go?” exclaimed the men in chorus, stirring as if to make an attack. “’Cross Sellers’ Lane,” said the rider. “The boys think he’s goin’ by way of Baldwin.” “Whoopee!” yelled one of the listeners. “We’ll get him away from him, all right! Are you goin’, Sam?” “You bet!” said the latter. “Wait’ll I get my horse!” “Lord!” thought Davies. “To think of being (perforce) one of a lynching party--a hired spectator!” He delayed no longer, however, but hastened to secure his horse again. He saw that the crowd would be off in a minute to catch up with the sheriff. There would be information in that quarter, drama very likely. “What’s doin’?” inquired the liveryman as he noted Davies’ excited appearance.