But in other directions matters were not so hopeful. For a fortnight Jess and his bloodhound had grimly searched the mountains. He felt the necessity of raising a posse, but the Colonel would have none of that; no others besides themselves and the trusted sheriff, he swore, must share the story, lest it be bandied from tongue to tongue and eventually distorted--too many characters, he said, were sacrificed every Saturday night by those gods who whittled upon their thrones in front of the village store to take any chances. So Jess had searched alone and in vain. Brent, working at the survey with an ardor that might have been inspired by the example of Dale, had each evening come home by way of the partly rebuilt cabin, hoping--praying--to get a glimpse of the outlaw. Nor had the Colonel remained passive, but his activities progressed on the back of a horse. There had been one other watcher of whom neither of them knew. This particular morning the engineer was in his room, plotting out an accumulation of field notes. By him, and bending over the large drawing board with as deep, though not as accurate, an interest, the Colonel stood. Not infrequently now did the old gentleman come up to watch this railroad grow upon paper, and talk as the other worked. They had been speculating on the whereabouts of Tusk, and Brent was supporting Jess' theory that he had fled into Virginia; but it was a most unpleasant subject to them both and the Colonel exclaimed: "I understand Tom has accepted my price!" "Yes. He sent his wife to Dulany. They're leaving almost at once." The old gentleman chuckled. "You've won the neighborhood's everlasting gratitude, sir! And did he promise to brace up in the country of his adoption?" "By proxy," Brent mumbled, at the moment carefully drawing a line. "But promises don't amount to a fiddle-de-dee. Men brace up when they want to. Have you seen Jane lately?" "Not for some days. You know I urged her not to ride alone. Why?" "I was just wondering if she had spoken to you about Dale. Have you noticed anything strange in him?" "I've noticed that he is thinner," a shade of worry passed over the fine old face, "and his eyes--" he hesitated. "That's it," Brent looked up. "His eyes have a haunted look. He's sick, Colonel." "I should have spoken to Stone, Brent, but have been so worried over that dear girl! She seems changed, too. I don't know what is happening to us!" "Better speak to him today, then. He's leaving for a few days' pilgrimage to distant patients." The old gentleman went to the door and called down to Uncle Zack, sending him after the doctor whom he knew, since the little motor vehicle was in front, must be somewhere on the grounds.