“Yes, yes--in the morning. I'll be round.” When he was alone Hoag strolled back to the bar-room. He familiarly nodded to the barkeeper, and smiled mechanically as he called for whisky. He drank, lighted a cigar, leaned for an instant against the polished counter, and then, seeing a man entering whom he knew and wished to avoid, he turned back into the foyer. Presently he went to the front door and glanced up and down the street. A cab was at the edge of the sidewalk, and the negro driver called out to him: “Ca'iage, boss? Any part de city.” “All right, I'm with you,” Hoag went to the cab, whispered an address, got in, and closed the door. With a knowing smile the negro mounted his seat and drove away. At the corner he turned down Decatur Street, and presently drove into a short street leading toward the railroad. Here the houses on either side of the way had red glass in the doors, through which crimson rays of light streamed out on the pavement. The cab was about to slow up at one of the houses when Hoag rapped on the window. The driver leaned down and opened the door. “What is it, boss?” “Take me back to the hotel,” was the command. The driver paused in astonishment, then slowly turned his horse and started back. “It might happen thar, and Jack would find out about it,” Hoag leaned back and groaned. “That would never do. It is bad enough as it is, but that would be worse. He might grow up an' be ashamed even to mention me. Henry is tryin' to do right, too, an' I'd hate for him to know.” CHAPTER XXVII |AT twelve o'clock at night, two days later, Hoag returned to Grayson. It was warm and cloudy, and when he left the train he found himself alone on the unlighted platform. No one was in sight, and yet he felt insecure. He told himself, when the train had rumbled away, that it would be easy for an assassin to stand behind the little tool-house, the closed restaurant, or the railway blacksmith's shop and fire upon him. So, clutching his bag in his cold fingers, he walked swiftly up to the Square. Here, also, no one was in sight, and everything was so still that he could almost fancy hearing the occupants of the near-by hotel breathing. He turned down to Sid Trawley's stable to get his horse. The dim light of a murky lantern swinging from a beam at the far end shone in a foggy circle. The little office on the right was used by Trawley as a bedroom. The door was closed, but through the window a faint light was visible, and there was a sound within as of a man removing his shoes. “Hello, Sid, you thar?” Hoag called out. “Yes, yes; who's that?” Hoag hesitated; then stepping close to the window, he said, in a lower tone: “Me--Jim Hoag; I want my hoss, Sid.” “Oh, it's _you_; all right--all right!” The sound in the room was louder now, and then Trawley, without coat or hat, his coarse shirt gaping at the neck, opened the door and came out.