“And Auntie Sue,”--something within the man's self was saying,--“dear Auntie Sue, who had saved him, not only from death, but from the hell of the life that he had formerly lived, as well; and whose loving companionship and sympathetic understanding had so inspired and strengthened him in the work which had been the passionate desire of his heart;--the gentle old teacher whose life had been so completely given to others, and who, in the helplessness of her last years, was so alone,--Auntie Sue was depending upon that money which her brother had sent her as the only support of the closing days of her life. Auntie Sue believed that her money was safe in the bank. That belief was to her a daily comfort. Auntie Sue did not know that she was almost penniless;--that the man whom she had saved with such a wondrous salvation had robbed her, and left her so shamefully without means for the necessities of life. Auntie Sue did not know. But she would know,”--that inner voice went on. “The time would come when she would learn the truth. It was certain to come. It might come any day. Then--then--” As one moving without conscious purpose, Brian Kent went from the house,--the manuscript in his hand. Judy was sitting idly on the porch steps. At sight of the mountain girl the man knew all at once that there was one thing he must do. He must make sure that there was no mistake. He was already sure, of course; but still, as a condemned man at the scaffold hopes against hope for a stay of sentence, so he caught at the shadowy suggestion of a possibility. “Come with me, Judy,” he said, forcing himself to speak coolly; “I want to talk with you.” Judy arose, and, looking at him in her stealthy, oblique way, said, in her drawling monotone: “What's happened ter Auntie Sue? Was there somethin' in that there letter Bud Jackson give you-all for her what's upset her?” “Auntie Sue's brother is dead, Judy,” Brian answered. “She wishes to be alone, and we must not disturb her. She will be all right in a little while. Come, let us walk down toward the bluff.” When they had reached a spot on the river-bank a short distance above the Elbow Rock cliff, Brian said to his companion: “Judy, I want you to tell me something. Did Auntie Sue ever send money in a letter to the Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, in Chicago?” “The black, beady eyes shifted evasively, and the mountain girl turned her sallow, old-young face away from Brian's direct gaze. “Look at me, Judy.” She sent a stealthy, oblique glance in his direction. “You must tell me.” “I done started ter tell you-all onct,--that time pap ketched me,--an' you-all 'lowed as how I oughten ter tell nothin' 'bout Auntie Sue to nobody.” “But it is different now, Judy,” returned Brian. “Something has happened that makes it necessary for me to know.” “Meanin' that there letter 'bout her brother bein' dead?” asked Judy, shrewdly. “Yes.” “What you-all got ter know for?” “Because--” Brian could not finish.