"Oh!" and Mary went white from head to foot. "It is one of the sheriff's men. Don't you think so?" "I don't know. Kenneth says he got a good look at him and that he is sure he is a stranger here. To be plain, Kenneth thinks that the sheriff has sent for a detective and that the detective may suspect the thing we are trying to hide--that the boys are not in the West, but here at home." Mary said nothing. The deepening pallor of her face rendered it grim and firm, but it was none the less beautiful in its unwonted lines. He took off the saddle, opened the gate, and turned the horse into the lot. "When the boys hear the horse in the stall," he said, "they will know you are back. Will it be necessary for you to go in to them? I mean--you see, if the fellow is still watching; in that case he might draw deductions from your being there. While if you go on to the house now--" "I understand, and you are right," Mary said, with tight lips. "No, I'll go to the house. It is awful--awful--awful!" He closed the gate and walked by her side till they reached the path leading down to the field. Here he turned to leave her. "Where are you going?" The tone and words carried an almost desperate appeal to him not to leave her. In her wonderful eyes something seemed to burn not unlike the celestial resignation of the ancient saints before approaching torture. But, withal, she seemed to want to lean on him for moral or physical support. "I think I'll go back to work," he answered. "It is still not quite time for supper. Besides, from the field I can keep a better watch on the woods while I appear to see nothing." "Well, well, you are right," she said, sighing, "but please don't be late, and tell me if you see anything." As she was nearing the house she saw her father returning home by a small private road which led to some of the farms north of his property. "Where have you been?" she asked, as he joined her at the front gate, gallantly opened it, and stood aside for her to enter before him. "I went over to see Tankersley," was his answer. "I heard he had some money he might lend, and--well, I thought maybe I'd get it and send it to Tobe Keith. But as soon as the old miser heard what I wanted it for he laughed and sneered in my face. He was very impudent. His standard is money, and nothing higher. Of course, I couldn't afford to get angry with a man so low bred, and I came away." "I didn't know you had thought of raising money for Tobe," Mary said, wistfully. "In fact, I thought you would oppose my trying to get it."