I could not describe my progress down the dark Lower Road and along the Shore Lane. I do not remember any portion of it. I think I ran most of the way and if I met any one--which is not likely, considering the time--he or she must have thought me crazy. My thoughts were centered upon one fixed purpose. I had made up my mind to do a certain thing and, if possible, to do it that very night. If I did not, if I had time in which to reflect, to consider consequences, I might lose my nerve and it would not be done at all. It was with a feeling of great relief that, as I came in sight of the Colton house, I saw lights in the rooms on the lower floor. The family, not being native born Denboroites, had not retired even though it was well after ten. I hastened up the long drive, and stood before the big door, my hand upraised to the knocker. And then, just for a moment, I hesitated. If I lifted that knocker and let it fall; if I summoned the servant and announced that I wished to speak with Mr. Colton; if I did what I had come there to do, it would be all over with me in the village. My new born popularity, the respect which Cap'n Warren and Cap'n Jed and the rest of the townspeople had shown toward me of late, the cordial recognition which had been mine during the past few weeks and which, in spite of pretended indifference, I had come to expect and enjoy, all these would be lost if I persisted in my purpose. My future in Denboro depended upon whether or not I knocked at that door. And it was not too late to back out, even yet. I had only to turn quietly away and tell George, when I saw him in the morning, that I could not help him as I had hoped. And then I thought of his face as I saw it when I entered the bank--and of Nellie's letter to me. I seized the knocker and rapped sharply. For a few moments my knock was unanswered. Then I heard footsteps and the door was opened. Johnson, the butler, opened it, and his clerical countenance assumed a most astonished expression when he saw me standing before him. “Is Mr. Colton in?” I asked. “What? What--sir?” stammered Johnson. The “sir” was added under protest. He did not wish to show more respect than was absolutely necessary to a countryman, but he scarcely dared speak as disrespectfully as he felt. Therefore he compromised by voicing the respect and looking the other way. “Is Mr. Colton in?” I repeated. “I don't know. I--I don't think so--sir.” The windows at my left were, I knew, those of the library, the room where “Big Jim” and I had had our first lively discussion of the Shore Lane matter. I glanced at them. “I think he is,” I said. “In fact I know it; there is his shadow on the curtain. Tell him Mr. Paine wishes to speak with him.” Johnson looked as insolent as he dared, and still hesitated. “It is very late,” he said. “Mr. Colton is not in the 'abit of receiving callers at this time of night and--”