"I'd like to know what that is," he thought; "but I'd better _skip_." Then horror took possession of him; he crossed the road quickly and dashed into the Mark property. Then he ran to River Road and the bridge, up the incline on the other side of the pond, and into the fields beyond. On he went until Mona was passed; then he sat down in a little patch of wood and thought. He was sure nobody had seen him except a farmer in the distance, too far away to know he was a negro. He was innocent, and perhaps he had better wait and see the police. Had he done so then and there, all would have been solved sooner than it was; but, poor boy, he had no one to advise him and he was alone with a terrible secret. He had done well; he could identify the murderer perhaps; his was a great responsibility. He stayed around, and from afar witnessed the crowds of the morning. In the afternoon he sneaked into town, hungry and worn and terribly cold. When he saw the people gathering in the court-room, curiosity conquered. He listened with all his soul, and made up his mind to go in and tell what he knew. He saw Oakes come forward to give his testimony, and his heart beat fast and furious. He felt ill--the cold sweat poured from him as he heard; but he remained, entranced. He was going to tell all, for surely that tall fellow--Clark, they were calling him,--was the great detective Oakes; he had shined his shoes many times at the stand on Broadway before he went up-town. How peculiar that they didn't seem to know him! Then intelligence came, and he said to himself: "These people don't know him because he does not want them to." Joe did not understand all that had been said, but he knew things were uncanny and that this man Oakes was playing a game. Suddenly had come the statement of Oakes about the arms, and the tension became too great. He cried out and ran, like the fleet-footed boy that he was, for Lorona. There he told nothing, except that he had missed the train. His friends gave him food--the murder story was yet vague in the little village--and then he dashed on for New York. He shook the dust from his clothes and, catching a train miles down the line, arrived safely in town. He was far away from Mona at last, but he must see Mr. Elliott, his good friend, and tell him all that he could. As the negro finished his story he looked around, and partially recovered from the state of ecstasy into which the recitation had thrown him. His eyes were rolling and shifting, his dark skin had that peculiar ashen color that comes to the negro under stress of great excitement. Dr. Moore arose and walked to the boy, and, placing his hands on his wrist, said reassuringly: "Good boy, Joe! you are a brave fellow." Oakes handed him a drink of brandy--he needed it--and then we all joined in praising him. He soon recovered himself, and then Oakes took up his position beside him again. "Now, Joe, what did the murderer drop when he jumped over the stream from the rock?"