“What's been done?” he asked, with fierce repression. “What's going to be done? Don't you know that every second is precious?” “I am about to conclude my investigations, sir,” said the judge with dignity. Carrington stepped to the door. After all, what was there to expect of these men? Whatever their interest, it was plainly centered in the boy. He passed out into the hall. As the door closed on him the judge turned again to the Scratch Hiller. “Mr. Yancy, Mr. Mahaffy and I hold your nephew in the tenderest regard, he has been our constant companion ever since you were lost to him. In this crisis you may rely upon us; we are committed to his recovery, no matter what it involves.” The judge's tone was one of unalterable resolution. “I reckon you-all have been mighty good and kind to him,” said Yancy huskily. “We have endeavored to be, Mr. Yancy--indeed I had formed the resolution legally to adopt him should you not come to claim him. I should have given him my name, and made him my heir. His education has already begun, under my supervision,” and the judge, remembering the high use to which he had dedicated one of Pegloe's trade labels, fairly glowed with philanthropic fervor. “Think of that!” murmured Yancy softly. He was deeply moved. So was Mr. Cavendish, who was gifted with a wealth of ready sympathy. He thrust out a hardened hand to the judge. “Shake!” he said. “You're a heap better than you look.” A thin ripple of laughter escaped Mahaffy, but the judge accepted Chills and Fever's proffered hand. He understood that here was a simple genuine soul. “Price, isn't it important for us to know why Mr. Yancy thinks the boy has been taken back to North Carolina?” said Mahaffy. “Just what kin is Hannibal to you, Mr. Yancy?” asked the judge resuming his seat. “Strictly speaking, he ain't none. That he come to live with me is all owing to Mr. Crenshaw, who's a good man when left to himself, but he's got a wife, so a body may say he never is left to himself,” began Yancy; and then briefly he told the story of the woman and the child much as he had told it to Bladen at the Barony the day of General Quintard's funeral. The judge, his back to the light and his face in shadow, rested his left elbow on the desk and with his chin sunk in his palm, followed the Scratch Hiller's narrative with the closest attention. “And General Quintard never saw him--never manifested any interest in him?” the words came slowly from the judge's lips, he seemed to gulp down something that rose in his throat. “Poor little lad!” he muttered, and again, “Poor little lad!” “Never once, sir. He told the slaves to keep him out of his sight. We-all wondered, fo' you know how niggers will talk. We thought maybe he was some kin to the Quintards, but we couldn't figure out how. The old general never had but one child and she had been dead fo' years. The child couldn't have been hers no how.” Yancy paused. The judge drummed idly on the desk.