These were the very questions he had begun to hope he might escape, for that night at least. That they would have to be answered somehow, and at some time, he realized only too well, but what his answers should be he had not yet decided. And he must have time in which to consider. In spite of the shock to his nerves, in spite of the difficulty of thinking of anything except the terrible thing which had happened, he had thought sufficiently to realize a little of the problems confronting him. If he could only get away from that house without being subjected to cross-examination then--well, then he might be able to make up his mind as to how much of the truth should be told. So far as he was concerned he had nothing to hide; but there were others--so many others. And now here was one of these others--the very one whose name must be kept out of this miserable mess--_must_ be--regarding him anxiously and repeating the questions he dreaded. “Bob,” she urged, “why don’t you tell me? Where did it happen? Why were you the one to find him?” He answered without looking at her. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, hurriedly. “It just happened, I guess. I will tell your uncle all about it by and by, of course. You mustn’t wait now. They may need you upstairs. Good-night.” “But, Bob, where had you been? Where were you?” “Oh, I had been down to the shanty--to the studio. I had something there to attend to. My own horse is at the livery stable and I was walking toward the stable when I saw the span standing by the side of the road. I went over and looked.” “Beside what road? The stable is at the corner of the lower road, and your studio is on that road. If you were coming--Bob, were the span and--and Seymour on _that_ road? Was that where it happened?” “I mustn’t stay. They need you, I know. Good-night.” “But, Bob, how could he have been away down on the lower road? With Uncle Foster’s horses? Why--Bob!” But he was hurrying to the gate. She stood for a moment, looking after him. Then she closed the door and hastened up the stairs. At Harniss breakfast tables that morning the performance of “Pinafore” at the town hall was the topic of discussion. By dinner time, however, “Pinafore” was forgotten entirely, for a new sensation had pushed it to the background and taken its place in the limelight. Seymour Covell, the rich young fellow from Chicago, Foster Townsend’s guest, the one to whom so many people were referring as “Esther Townsend’s new beau,” had met with an accident. One of the Townsend horses, one of the famous span, had kicked him in the head, or the ribs, or somewhere--had kicked him, anyhow--and he was dead, or dying, or sure to die before long. And Captain Foster had said-- No, it was Varunas Gifford who said it-- Or Nabby-- Well, at any rate--and so on.