“There’s the attic, honey. I’ll boost you, an’ you go up there an’ hide from that wild man. You got to, for that worfless Parsons am tellin’ him which room you’s in. You hurry—you heah me!” She helped the girl upward, and stood listening until the trap-door grated shut. Then she turned and grinned at the door that led into the big room adjoining the kitchen. Carrington was at it, his shoulder against it; Martha could hear him cursing. “Open up, here!” came Carrington’s voice through the door, muffled, but resonant. “Open the door, damn you, or I’ll tear it down!” “Tear away, white man!” giggled Martha softly. “They’s a big ’sprise waitin’ you when you git in heah!” For an instant following Carrington’s curses and demands there was a silence. It was broken by a splintering crash, and the negro woman saw the door split so that the light from the other room streaked through it. But the door held, momentarily. Then Carrington again lunged against it and it burst open, pieces of the lock flying across the room. This time Carrington did not fall with the door, but reeled through the opening, erect, big, a vibrant, mirthless laugh on his lips. The light from the other room streamed in past him, shining full upon Martha, who stood, her hands on her hips, looking at the man. Carrington was disconcerted by the presence of Martha when he had expected to see Marion. He stepped back, cursing. Martha giggled softly. “What you doin’ in my room, man; just when I’se goin’ to retiah? You git out o’ heah—quick! Yo’ heah me? Yo’ ain’t got no business bustin’ my door down!” “Bah!” Carrington’s voice was malignant with baffled rage. With one step he was at Martha’s side, his hands on her throat, his muscles rigid and straining. “Where’s Marion Harlan?” he demanded. “Tell me, you black devil, or I’ll choke hell out of you!” Martha was not frightened; she giggled mockingly. “That girl bust in heah a minute ago; then she bust out ag’in, runnin’ fit to kill herself. I reckon by this time she’s done throw herself off the butte—rather than have you git her!” Carrington shoved Martha from him, so that she staggered and fell; and with a bound he was through the door that led into Martha’s room. The negro woman did not move. She sat on the floor, a malicious grin on her face, listening to Carrington as he raged through the house. Once, about five minutes after he left, Carrington returned and stuck his head into the room. Martha still sat where Carrington had thrown her. She did not care what Carrington did to the house, so long as he was ignorant of the existence of the trap-door. And Carrington did not notice the door. For an hour Martha heard him raging around the house, opening and slamming doors and overturning furniture. Once when she did not hear him for several minutes, she got up and went to one of the windows. She saw him, out at the stable, looking in at the horses.