Johnson remained beside the table a moment, deep in thought. Then he smote his hands together and an expression of relief lighted his face. "I'll go get her," he told us. We were for accompanying him to the Hardins' place, but had not gone more than a few hundred yards when he pulled up and requested that we go back. This matter was between him and Hetty--he said it with some hesitation--and it were better that he go alone. So we turned back, only to halt again. "He might need some help," was Bob's excuse. "Supposing she's sick. What do you say if we trail him?" "Come on." It was now after nine o'clock and there was small probability of Johnson perceiving us. Yet we kept far in rear lest he hear our horses. We had proceeded perhaps a mile when he amazed us by riding back. Lafe was going at a lope and he did not pause. To our utter consternation he took no notice of our presence, but went by at a clatter and swerved to the right up a narrow ravine. "He's crazy," said Ferrier. "He must have gone out of his head. Let's drift." "Wait, Lafe. Wait!" I bellowed. We jabbed with the spurs and went in pursuit. Presently we saw Lafe's horse standing riderless amid the post-oak, nibbling at the grass, and some distance in front we heard the stroke of his spur. He must have stubbed his toe, for he fell, and swore with freedom. That permitted us to gain on him, but he picked himself up and went forward at an ungainly run. "What's got into him?" said Bob. He was puffing. We had abandoned our horses and were legging it after him as best we could. "Search me!" I said breathlessly. Far ahead I could see a spark burning. It was going steadily up the ravine. Surely Lafe could not be smoking; I dismissed this idea at once, for we could see him dimly and he was much nearer than the spark. It seemed to expand and cavort with glee as we came on. The ravine had always been a favorite spot with Hetty. There were shady places in it during the day, however merciless the aching void of sky, and often had she brought her sewing to sit there, listening to the acorns drop in the hushed stillness. "Gee, I can't run another step," said Ferrier. "You go on. Lafe! Stop!" We both ceased running. I was compelled to clutch the limb of a tree to hold myself upright. The spark ahead of us was now grown to a ball of fire, giving off a vaporous sheen. Still it kept on, and the runner in front slowed to a walk: Lafe was as little accustomed to this exercise as we were. Then I perceived that Jack-o'-Lantern had come to a stop. He flashed above a tree, dipped downward, poised in midair. "Hal-loo," came a cry from Johnson. "Here I am. Hurry! Hurry!" "Let's try again," Bob gasped, and we forced our cramped limbs into a run. Lafe was bending over a white object that lay huddled at the base of a tree. "It's her," said he, as we arrived.