“The means will be found, Solomon. Our horizon is lifting--I can see it lift! Don't drag me back from the portal of hope! We'll drink the stuff that comes across the water; I'll warm the cockles of your heart with imported brandy. I carry twenty years' hunger and thirst under my wes-coat and I'll feed and drink like a gentleman yet!” The judge smacked his lips in an ecstasy of enjoyment, and dropping down before the table which served him as a desk, seized a pen. “It's good enough to think about, Price,” admitted Mahaffy grudgingly. “It's better to do; and if anything happens to me the papers I am going to leave will tell you how it's to be done. Man, there's a million of money in sight, and we've got to get it and spend it and enjoy it! None of your swinish thrift for me, but life on a big scale--company, and feasting, and refined surroundings!” “And you are going to meet Fentress in the morning?” asked Mahaffy. “I suppose there's no way of avoiding that?” “Avoiding it?” almost shouted the judge. “For what have I been living? I shall meet him, let the consequences be what they may. To-night when I have reduced certain facts to writing I shall join you at Belle Plain. The strange and melancholy history of my life I shall place in your hands for safe keeping. In the morning I can be driven back to Boggs'.” “And you will go there without a second?” “If necessary; yes.” “I declare, Price, you are hardly fitted to be at large! Why, you act as if you were tired of life. There's Yancy--there's Cavendish!” The judge gave him an indulgent but superior smile. “Two very worthy men, but I go to Boggs' attended by a gentleman or I go there alone. I am aware of your prejudices, Solomon; otherwise I might ask this favor of you.” Mr. Mahaffy snorted loudly and turned to the door, for Yancy and Cavendish were now approaching the house, the latter with a meal sack slung over his shoulder. “Here, Solomon, take one of my pistols,” urged the judge hastily. “You may need it at Belle Plain. Goodby, and God bless you!” Just where he had parted from Ware, Carrington sat his horse, his brows knit and his eyes turned in the direction of the path. He was on his way to a plantation below Girard, the owner of which had recently imported a pack of bloodhounds; but this unexpected encounter with Ware had affected him strangely. He still heard Tom's stammering speech, he was still seeing his ghastly face, and he had come upon him with startling suddenness. He had chanced to look back over his shoulder and when he faced about there had been the planter within a hundred yards of him.