She did not reply at once, and when she lifted the dark eyes to his they were full of suffering, like those of an animal under the lash. "I nev' said hit was you," she averred, after a time. "No; but you might as well. Everybody believes it, and you haven't denied it. Who is the man?" "I cayn't tell," she said simply. "You mean you won't tell." "No, I cayn't; I'm livin' on his money, Tom-Jeff." "No, you are not. What makes you say that?" "She told me I was." "Who? Miss Dabney?" Her nod was affirmative, and he went on: "Tell me just what she said; word for word, if you can remember." The answer came brokenly. "I was ashamed--you don't believe hit, but hit's so. I allowed it was _her_ money. When I made out like I'd run off, she said, 'No; it's his money 'at's bein' spent for you, and you have a right to it.'" Tom was silent for a time; then he said the other necessary word. "She believes I am the man who wronged you, Nan. It was my money." The woman half rose and then sat down again, rocking the child in her arms. "You're lyin' to me, Tom-Jeff Gordon. Hit's on'y a lie to make me tell!" she panted. "No, it's the truth. I was sorry for you and helped you because--well, because of the old times. But everybody has misunderstood, even Miss Dabney." Silence again; the silence of the high mountain plateau and the whispering pines. Then she asked softly: "Was you aimin' to marry her, Tom-Jeff?" His voice was somber. "I've never had the beginning of a chance; and besides, she is promised to another man." The woman was breathing hard again. "I heerd about that, too--jest the other day. I don't believe hit!" "It is true, just the same. But I didn't come out here to talk about Miss Dabney. I want to know a name--the name of a man." She shook her head again and relapsed into unresponsiveness. "I cayn't tell; he'd shore kill me. He's always allowed he'd do hit if I let on." "Tell me his name, and I'll kill him before he ever gets a chance at you," was the savage rejoinder. "D'ye reckon you'd do that, Tom-Jeff--for me?" The light of the old allurement was glowing in the dark eyes when she said it, but there was no answering thrill of passion in his blood. For one moment, indeed, the bestial demon whispered that here was vengeance of a sort, freely proffered; but the fiercer devil thrust this one aside, and Tom found himself looking consciously and deliberately into the abyss of crime. Once he might have said such a thing in the mere exuberance of anger, meaning nothing more deadly than the retaliatory buffet of passion. But now--