|HOAG rode into the village the next morning, and as his horse bore him along through the balmy air he ruminated over the object he had in view. He had determined to see Sid Trawley and have a straight talk with him about certain private matters. He no longer doubted that the liveryman was persistently avoiding him. Sid had not answered to his name at the last roll-call of the “klan,” and vague rumors were afloat. One of the younger members had jocularly remarked that Sid had simply “got cold feet, an' was tryin' to shirk the entire thing.” At any rate, Hoag was sure that Trawley was not deporting himself as an aide-decamp should, and Hoag was determined to have a distinct understanding about it. It was not Hoag's way to beat about the bush, and Trawley knew too much regarding matters more or less confidential to be allowed to act as he was acting without good and sufficient reasons. As his horse cantered along the street near the livery-stable, Hoag was quite sure that he saw Trawley in the doorway and that he had purposely withdrawn from view. “Huh, that's cheeky!” Hoag muttered, as he reined in at the stable, dismounted, and threw his bridle-rein to a negro attendant. “Which way did Sid go?” he asked the man, suddenly. The negro's eyelashes flickered hesitatingly, and he avoided the white man's stare. “I dunno, boss, I hain't seed 'im,” the man said. “He was heer dis mawnin', but I don't know whar he is now.” “You are a liar, you black imp!” Hoag growled. “I saw 'im right here a minute ago.” The negro made no response; he shrugged his shoulders doggedly, and his bead-like eyes were full of cautious concern as he led the horse to a stall. Hoag stared after him, a sullen, thwarted expression on his face. “Don't take the saddle off,” he yelled. “I'm goin' back right away.” And with that he suddenly turned into the little office on the right, finding Trawley at his desk, a queer look, half of fear, half of sheepishness, in his shifting eyes. Hoag was now positive that the man was trying to avoid him, and a fierce demand for explanation was on his tongue, but he managed to restrain himself. Indeed, he felt that this was a case that required diplomatic handling, for Trawley had a temper, and at present had the look of a man driven into a corner. “Hello, Sid,” Hoag said. “How goes it?” “Oh, so so,” Trawley answered, awkwardly. “How's things out your way?” “Oh, about as common.” Hoag was wondering over Trawley's sallow complexion, once so ruddy, and the nervousness of a frame which surely had lost weight and poise. The two did not shake hands. Hoag idly tapped the green cloth of the desk, beating little ridges of dust into view, and fixed his purposeful eyes on the dingy, small-paned window which was hung over with cobwebs. “You hain't answered at roll-call lately,” he suddenly plunged.