At nine o’clock the moon showed the edge of a coy cheek above the horizon hills, and shortly thereafter March heard the click of the garden gate. Instinctively he put out his hand to keep Thor quiet, an unwarrantable idea that Hetty might revisit the spot darting through his mind. The shuffling of feet over the sward quieted his leaping heart. In another minute he distinguished the outlines of a figure stealing across the moonlit spaces separating black blotches of shade. As it neared the covert he spoke quietly, not to alarm the intruder. “Good-evening, Homer.” “O Lord!” The three-quarter-witted wight bounded a foot from the ground, then collapsed into a shaking huddle. “It is I—Mr. Gilchrist,” March hastened to add. “I am sorry I frightened you.” “Now—I was jes a-lookin’ fer a light I see from the back porch down this ’ere way,” uttered Homer, in an agitated drawl. March could see the coarse fingers rubbing against the backs of his hands, and a ray of light touched the pendulous jaw. “It was the match I struck to light a cigar I smoked a while ago,” he said. “I dare say that may account for the light you have seen at other times.” “Ye-es, sir”—dubiously. “I been saw the light lots o’ nights, when I aint spoke of it. ’Tain’t like er sergar. It’s like a lantern a-swinging this er way”—swaying one hand—“I clumb this tree one night, an’ sot thar till nigh mornin’, a-waitin’ an’ a-watchin’ fer it ter come again. There’s a man what tole me ’twas the devil a-watchin’ out for _me_.” “I am surprised you try to catch him. From what I have heard, he is a slippery chap.” “_No-ow_—I aint a-feerd on him fer myself. _Now_, I’d be loath fer him to worry Miss Hetty.” “You are a good fellow, Homer! A brave fellow!” responded the listener, with sudden energy. “When you do get on the track of the light, let me know, and I’ll lend a hand to nab the devil.” “Ye-es, sir! _Now_, I’ve been a-turnin’ over in my mind what that man say to me. He’s a man as ought to know what he’s talkin’ about. He t’reatened me orful a couple o’ times, sence we come to Fairhill. Sometimes I can’t sleep fer thinkin’ ’bout it. ‘You stay outen that orchard!’ he say. ‘Ther’ war a man murdered thar onct,’ he tell me, ‘an’ the devil is a-lookin’ fer him. Ef he come acrost you he’ll ketch you by a mistake,’ he say. But then, there’s Miss Hetty, you know, Mr. Gilchris’!” “What under heaven has she to do with your man, or his devil, or the light? Who is the man who threatened you? Does he live in Fairhill?” Homer plucked at his lower lip and glanced apprehensively around. “I dunno!” he answered, in sullen evasion. “I met him on the street one day. Two times I come acrost him in the orchard. Onct he come to the garding gate. That was the time he tell me ’bout the murder an’ the devil.” “He is a cruel, rascally liar!” cried March indignantly. “And you don’t know his name? What is he like? Did you ever speak of this to Miss Hetty?”