The old mail carrier didn't know what he was doing. His one desire was to vindicate himself in the cold eyes of the man before him. But he told it well and he did not spare himself. Once he though he caught a glimpse of thawing mirth in that face when he had finished relating how Denny had led him, reluctant and fearful, from the kitchen of the farmhouse to the spot of blood on the stable wall, and from there to the jug in a heap of fragments against the tree-butt. And that fleeting mirth became a warm, all-enveloping grin when he had detailed the climax of the Judge's prearranged sensation that same night. He knew then that he had set himself right, and he did not mean to go into it any more fully. It was the changed attitude of Morehouse that led him on and on. So he told, too, of Dryad Anderson's purchase of the bleak old place on the hill and her reason. But when it came to her wild fury against the paper that had dared to scoff at the boy he paused. For a second he calculated the wisdom of exhibiting the bit of a red bow that had been entrusted him. It, without a doubt, would be the only passport he could hope for to a share of the glory, when it was all over. For the time being he jealously decided to let it wait, and he turned back to the rumpled sheet upon the desk. "She--she'd be mighty disappointed," he finished a little lamely. "She's so sure, somehow, it kinda worries me. You--you do think he's got a little chance, don't you--jest a trifle?" It took a long time--Old Jerry's confession. It was dark before he finished, but Morehouse did not interrupt him by so much as the lifting of a finger. And he sat silent, gazing straight ahead of him, after the old man had finished. Old Jerry, watching him, wondered vaguely what made his eyes so bright now. "So that's it, is it?" the plump man murmured at last. "So that's it. And I never dreamed of it once. I must be going stale." He wheeled in his chair until he faced Old Jerry full. "I don't know," he said. "A half-hour before you came in I didn't like even to think of it. But now--chance? Well, this deadly waiting is over anyhow, and we'll soon know. And I wonder--now--I wonder!" With his watch flat in the palm of his hand Morehouse sat and whistled softly. And then he shot hastily to his feet. Old Jerry understood that whistle, but he hung back. "I--I ain't got my ticket yet," he protested. Morehouse merely reached in and hustled him over the threshold. "Your unabridged edition, while it has no doubt saved my sanity, has robbed us both of food and drink," he stated. "There's no time left, even for friendly argument, if you want to be there when it happens. You won't need any ticket this time--you'll be with me."