Towering almost grotesquely in the pallid dawn, Christopher came and leaned above the sofa to which Will had dragged himself again. "You must get out of this," he said, "and quickly, for we've wasted the whole night wrangling. Have you any money?" Will fumbled in his pocket and brought out a few cents, which he held in his open palm, while the other unlocked the drawer of the old secretary and handed him a roll of banknotes. "Take this and buy a ticket somewhere. It's the money I scraped up to pay Fred Turner." "To pay Fred Turner?" echoed Will, as if in that lay the significance of the remark. "Take it and buy a ticket, and when you get where you're going, sit still and keep your mouth shut. If you wear a bold face you will go scot--free; remember that; but everything depends upon your keeping a stiff front. And now go--through the back door and past the kitchen to the piece of woods beyond the pasture. Cut through them to Tanner's Station and take the train there, mind, for the North." With a short laugh he held out his big, knotted hand. "Good--by," he said, " and don't be a damned fool." "Good--by," answered Will, clinging desperately to his outstretched arm. Then an ashen pallor overspread his face, and he slunk nervously toward the kitchen, for there was the sound of footsteps on the little porch outside, followed by a brisk rap on the front door. "Go!" whispered Christopher, hardly taking breath, and he stood waiting while Will ran along the wooden platform and past the stable toward the pasture. The rap came again, and he turned quickly. "Quit your racket and let me get on my clothes!" he shouted, and hesitated a little longer. As he stood alone there in the center of the room, his eyes, traversing the walls, fell on the portrait of Bolivar Blake, and with one of the fantastic tricks of memory there shot into his head the dying phrase of that gay sinner: "I may not sit with the saints, but I shall stand among the gentlemen." "Precious old ass!" he muttered, and unbarred the door. As he flung it open the first rays of sunlight splashed across the threshold, and he was conscious, all at once, of a strange exhilaration, as if he were breasting one of the big waves of life. "This is a pretty way to wake up a fellow who has been planting tobacco till he's stiff," he grumbled. "Is that you, Tom?" He glanced carelessly round, nodding with a kind of friendly condescension to each man of the little group. "How are you, Matthew? Hello, Fred!" Tom drew back, coughing, and scraped the heel of his boot on the topmost step. "We didn't mean to git you out of bed, Mr. Christopher," he explained apologetically, "but the truth is we want Will Fletcher an' he ain't at home. The old man's murdered, suh."