One morning Tilly was occupied in the little front yard of her home. Some rose-bushes needed attention, and with a pair of large scissors she was pruning the branches and cutting the weeds away with a garden trowel. Suddenly, happening to glance toward the town, she noticed one of the street-hacks approaching. There was no doubt that it was headed for the cottage, and a sudden qualm of alarm passed over her. Indeed, she feared that some accident might have happened to John, for he had told her that he was at work on a scaffold to which large stones were being hoisted. The negro cabman seemed to be in a hurry, for he was lashing his horse vigorously. The cab stopped at the gate. The door was opened and Richard Whaley stepped out. He wore his best suit of clothes, but it was badly wrinkled and covered with dust. His black-felt hat was crushed, and its broad brim had been pulled down over his eyes. Tilly heard him order the man to wait, and the tone of his voice sent a shock of terror through her. She had never heard him speak like that before, nor had she beheld such a look in his haggard face. His whole form drooped and quivered as with palsy as he came toward the gate. "Father!" Tilly gasped, but she said no more, for the wild stare of the bloodshot eyes cowed her into silence. He swung open the gate and lunged into the yard. "Where is that--where is John Trott?" he asked, panting, saliva like that of an idiot dripping from his shaking lip. "Where is he, I say?" Tilly saw the negro staring curiously. She knew he was listening. Almost deprived of her wits, yet she was thoughtful, and she said: "Come in, father; come in?" "Oh, he is inside, is he?" "Come in," Tilly answered, evasively. "Let's not talk out here." She led the way into the sitting-room and tremblingly placed a chair for him, noting as she did so that his coarse shoes were untied, his hat without a band, his cravat awry, his shirt unclean. He refused the chair, and stood holding to the back of it with a besmudged hand. Then her alert eyes took in the bulge of the right-hand pocket of his short coat. A weighty article drew it sharply downward. She knew that it was a revolver, and her blood ran cold in her veins. "Where is John Trott?" Whaley demanded, raspingly, and he looked toward the door leading into the dining-room. That room was darkened and he bent and peered toward it like a beast about to spring on its prey. "He is not here, father," Tilly said, in almost a gentle whisper. "Not here? Where has he gone?" She hesitated and then answered, "Out in the country, father."