There was a harsh, snarling sound as the hinged water-pipe was drawn up on its chains; the clanging of a bell; the shriek of the locomotive's whistle; a quickening succession of jerks, communicated from bumper to bumper, and the train was off. Walton was glad to be alone with the desolate pain that clutched him now with renewed force. He wanted no human eye to witness his misery. Away off there, beyond the hills, in its shroud of mystic moonlight, lay the town he now loved with a yearning which all but tore his heart from his body. He was looking at the old place for the last time unless, unless--and his blood ran cold at the thought--unless he was brought back by the officers of the law to answer for his crime. Yes, that might be his fate, after all. A city so well policed as Atlanta would prove a poor hiding-place for a penniless fugitive. A telegram from Stafford would put the authorities on the alert, and escape would be impossible. And no sentimental reasons would check prompt action on the part of old Simon Walton. In his rage over the discovery of the unexpected loss of such a large amount of ever-needed cash, he would balk at nothing. Of family pride he had little--certainly not pride strong enough to make him a party to the concealment of crime, even in his own blood. “If I have to be the daddy of a thief,” Fred imagined his saying, “I'd rather be the daddy of one under lock and key, where he could be controlled like any other sort of maniac.” Yes, he must make good his escape, the young man reflected; there was no other way. Escape meant a chance, at least, for reformation and atonement, and he must reform--he must atone. The train was rounding a curve. A sudden and deeper pain shot through him, for on a hill, in a grove not far off, he saw the roof, gables, windows, and walls of a country house he well knew. It was there, at a house-party, that he had been thrown for the first time with Margaret Dearing and had learned to love her. His eyes were blinded by tears he could not restrain as he tried to descry the exact spot among the trees where he and she had sat that glorious morning in early autumn. “God have mercy!” He leaned against the side of the car and groaned. Even now she knew of his ruin. Her brother had already prepared her for the news, which would spread through the town like wild-fire. She knew, and her proud brow was burning under the shame of having trusted a coward and a knave to the extent of having had her name coupled with his. He stood in the centre of the car, swayed back and forth by its ruthless motion. Those merciless wheels, grinding so close beneath, would end it all. It would be an easy thing to swing himself under the car door till he was over the rail and then let go--_let go!_ He shuddered, and turned cold from head to foot.