“I'm afraid it will,” Helen said. “Do what you can, Uncle Lewis. I'll be down to see her in a moment.” As the old man tottered away, Helen looked up and caught Carson's troubled glance. “I wish I were a man,” she said. “Why?” he inquired. “Because I'd take a strong stand here in the South for law and order at any cost. We have a good example in this very thing of what our condition means. Pete may be innocent, and no doubt is, for I don't believe he would do a thing like that no matter what the provocation, and yet he hasn't any sort of chance to prove it.” “You are right,” Carson said. “At such a time they would lynch him, if for nothing else than that he had dared to threaten the murdered man.” “Poor, poor old mammy!” sighed Helen. “Oh, it is awful to think of what she will suffer if--if--Carson, do you really think Pete is in actual danger?” Dwight hesitated for a moment, and then he met her stare frankly. “We may as well face the truth and be done with it,” he said. “No negro will be safe over there now, and Pete, I am sorry to say, least of all.” “If he is guilty he may run away,” she said, shortsightedly. “If he's guilty we don't _want_ him to get away,” Carson said, firmly. “But I really don't think he had anything to do with it.” Helen sighed. They had stepped back to the open gate, and there they paused side by side. “How discouraging life is!” she said. “Carson, in planning to get Pete over there, you and I were acting on our purest, noblest impulses, and yet the outcome of our efforts may be the gravest disaster.” “Yes, it seems that way,” he responded, gloomily; “but we must try to look on the bright side and hope for the best.” On parting with Helen, Carson went into the big, old-fashioned dining-room, and after hurriedly drinking a cup of coffee he went down to his office. Along the main thoroughfare, on the street comers, and in front of the stores he found little groups of men with grave faces, all discussing the tragedy. More than once in passing he heard Pete's name mentioned, and for fear of being questioned as to what he thought about it he hurried on. Garner was an early riser, and he found him at his desk writing letters. “Well, from all accounts,” Garner said, “your man Friday seems to be in a ticklish place over there, innocent or not--that is, if he hasn't had the sense to skip out.” “Somehow, I don't think Pete is guilty,” Carson said, as he sank into his big chair. “He's not that stamp of negro.”