"Speak up, man! Quick! What is it?" demanded Keith. His voice was vibrant with suppressed excitement, but he held himself outwardly calm, and waited immobile until the end of Krafft's story. It was characteristic of him as of all strong men in a crisis that he made no move whatever until he was sure he had grasped the whole situation. Krafft was just going to bed--he always retired early--when he was called to the door by Mex Ryan. Mex had never come to his house before. He was a shoulder striker and a thug; but he had one sure streak of loyalty in that nothing could ever induce him to go back on a pal. For various reasons he considered Krafft a pal. He was very much troubled. "Look here, boss," he said to Krafft, "It just come to my mind a while ago: what was the name of that bloke you told me to keep off'n? The Cora trial man, I mean." Krafft recalled the circumstance, and named Keith. Mex slapped his head. "That's right! It come to me afterward. Well, there's dirty work with his wife. That's where I see the name, on the outside of the note. I just give her a fake letter that says her husband is shot, and she's to go to him." "How did he know what the letter said?" interjected Keith at this point. "He'd read anything given him, of course. Mex knew the letter was false. I came up to find your house. I didn't know where you lived, so I stopped at John Sherwood's to inquire. Mrs. Sherwood was home alone. She came with me." "Where did this letter say I was supposed to be?" asked Keith, "Jake's Place." "My God!" cried Keith, and leaped for the door. At the same instant Mrs. Sherwood's voice was heard from the darkness. "Come here," she cried, "I have a rig." They found her seated in a buggy. Both climbed in beside her. Keith took the reins, and lashed the horse with the light whip. The astonished animal leaped; the buggy jerked forward. Then began a wild, careering, bumpy ride into the night. The road was fearful and all but invisible. The carriage swayed and swung dangerously. Keith drove, every faculty concentrated. No one spoke. The dim and ghostly half-guessed forms of things at night streamed past. "Who sent that letter?" demanded Keith finally. "Mex wouldn't tell me," replied Krafft. "How long ago did he deliver it?" "About an hour." The horse plunged frantically under the lash as this reply reached Keith. The buggy was all but overturned. He pulled the frantic animal down to a slower pace, and with an obvious effort regained control of himself. "Can't afford an accident!" he warned himself. "Are you armed?" Mrs. Sherwood asked him suddenly. "Yes--no, I left my gun at headquarters--that doesn't matter."