Baird heard himself say in a voice that was robbed of everything but assumed relief: "That was what we heard then--the horse making off. Can I help?" "I think not, Mr. Baird--thank you--Copeley and the others--have gone," Edward answered, his pauses marking the steadiness of each word. Judith's clear voice followed her brother's effort instantly. "We may as well go in, I think, Edward. There is nothing we can do." She still had her hand on his arm, and she turned with him, as if guiding him, and kept by his side, leaving Baird to follow with the colonel. The colonel spoke for the first time. "That's true. There's no good of our standin' about--not a bit.... It's a pleasant enough evenin' to be out in, though, Mr. Baird--like May, suh. You'll not know Westmo' by the middle of next week--the trees and the lilacs setting out green. It takes only a few days fo' spring to come here, on the Ridge, and this is an early year--a very early year, suh." If Baird had not been sobered by a sense of tragedy, he might have been amused by the colonel's attempt to follow Judith's lead. But the old gentleman's determinedly hearty voice failed him sadly, and Baird hoped that he had played the part he had instinctively chosen better than the colonel was playing his. And at the same time Baird's quick brain was trying to solve Edward's agonized, "My _God_!" What had Garvin done? Baird saw the man as he had looked that morning, with pistol raised. He was answering the colonel. "I have been looking forward to spring here. I suppose you don't hunt after the crops are up." "No, suh--we do have a little consideration fo' others, though we are not given credit for it. Now at Fair Field--" The colonel had stopped abruptly. They had come to the veranda and from its lowest step a huddled heap had got to its feet, a big negress whose black hands were torturing her white apron. "Miss Judith--?" she said whimperingly. Judith stopped dead. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was as sharp as the lash of a whip. "Miss Judith--I didn't go fo' to do it--" the woman begged humbly. Judith cut her off. "Go up-stairs and stay there!... Go!" The woman slunk by them and around the corner of the house like a whipped dog, and Judith went on, her head high, her hand still on Edward's arm. As they went up the steps and the light from the hall shone on her, Baird saw her face distinctly, immobile as a death-mask, but with restless eyes glancing at the ballroom, which was lighted but silent, then searching the hall. The front door stood wide, and on the portico the family were gathered, all except Mrs. Dickenson and her daughter, who were in the drawing-room. If Baird had needed confirmation of his fears, he had it in Mrs. Dickenson's face. She was clinging to her daughter, her face chalk-white and her eyes terror-stricken. The truth might escape from her at any moment; she looked on the verge of hysteria.