Deacon Hibben held up his hand. “That’s no way, Mrs. Rutledge. This ain’t a question of having grit. What we want first of all is ... proof....” “That’s so,” said Bosworth, with an explosion of relief, as if the words had lifted something black and crouching from his breast. Involuntarily the eyes of both men had turned to Brand. He stood there smiling grimly, but did not speak. “Ain’t it so, Brand?” the Deacon prompted him. “Proof that spooks walk?” the other sneered. “Well—I presume you want this business settled too?” The old farmer squared his shoulders. “Yes—I do. But I ain’t a sperritualist. How the hell are you going to settle it?” Deacon Hibben hesitated; then he said, in a low incisive tone: “I don’t see but one way—Mrs. Rutledge’s.” There was a silence. “What?” Brand sneered again. “Spying?” The Deacon’s voice sank lower. “If the poor girl _does_ walk ... her that’s your child ... wouldn’t you be the first to want her laid quiet? We all know there’ve been such cases ... mysterious visitations.... Can any one of us here deny it?” “I seen ’em,” Mrs. Rutledge interjected. There was another heavy pause. Suddenly Brand fixed his gaze on Rutledge. “See here, Saul Rutledge, you’ve got to clear up this damned calumny, or I’ll know why. You say my dead girl comes to you.” He laboured with his breath, and then jerked out: “When? You tell me that, and I’ll be there.” Rutledge’s head drooped a little, and his eyes wandered to the window. “Round about sunset, mostly.” “You know beforehand?” Rutledge made a sign of assent. “Well, then—tomorrow, will it be?” Rutledge made the same sign. Brand turned to the door. “I’ll be there.” That was all he said. He strode out between them without another glance or word. Deacon Hibben looked at Mrs. Rutledge. “We’ll be there too,” he said, as if she had asked him; but she had not spoken, and Bosworth saw that her thin body was trembling all over. He was glad when he and Hibben were out again in the snow. III They thought that Brand wanted to be left to himself, and to give him time to unhitch his horse they made a pretense of hanging about in the doorway while Bosworth searched his pockets for a pipe he had no mind to light. But Brand turned back to them as they lingered. “You’ll meet me down by Lamer’s pond tomorrow?” he suggested. “I want witnesses. Round about sunset.” They nodded their acquiescence, and he got into his sleigh, gave the horse a cut across the flanks, and drove off under the snow-smothered hemlocks. The other two men went to the shed. “What do you make of this business, Deacon?” Bosworth asked, to break the silence. The Deacon shook his head. “The man’s a sick man—that’s sure. Something’s sucking the life clean out of him.” But already, in the biting outer air, Bosworth was getting himself under better control. “Looks to me like a bad case of the ague, as you said.” “Well—ague of the mind, then. It’s his brain that’s sick.”