“I was passing and saw you give the darkey the money. Are you the contractor that employs those black fellows?” “You know very well I’m not. What’re you insinuatin’?” “Nothing.” “What was you spyin’ upon me fer?” “I wasn’t spying upon you. Why should I?” “You’re a liar—you _was_ spyin’ upon me!” Douglas’s steel-gray eyes flashed and his nostrils dilated. For a few moments he glared hard at the other—his thin lips compressed. Then he said with icy calmness: “Bradford—if that be your name—you have mistaken the mettle of the man to whom you applied that term. Let me warn you. Put a curb upon your hasty tongue—or stand ready to defend yourself. Your bluster didn’t frighten me last night—nor does it now.” “What—what do you mean?” Bradford faltered, recoiling a step. “You know well what I mean,” Ross went on quietly. “You’re not what you seem. You’re masquerading. For what purpose I don’t know.”—Bradford’s face brightened; he was recovering his equanimity.—“You’re an educated man—you _may_ be a gentleman and a patriot.” “I might return the compliment,” the older man interrupted sneeringly. “You, too, are an educated man. Perhaps _you_ are masquerading—you are so ready to accuse others. At any rate, I know less of you than you do of me. I don’t know your name, even.” “I’m not _certain_ that I know yours,” Ross replied meaningly. An expression of alarm flitted across Bradford’s scarred face, but he answered promptly: “Yes, you know my name. It’s Bradford—Hiram Bradford.” “And my name’s Ross Douglas.” Bradford dropped the butt of his gun to the ground with a thud. An ashen hue overspread his face, and the red scar upon his cheek stood out with a vividness that was startling. “Ross Douglas, you say?” he asked with livid, trembling lips. The younger man was greatly surprised at the effect the announcement of his name had produced upon his companion. But he kept control of himself and simply nodded in answer to the question. Bradford’s hand shook as he fumbled with the buttons upon his rough coat. “And your—your mother’s name?” he inquired. “Why should I answer your questions?” “Tell me—tell me!” the other panted. “Mary.” “Your father’s?” “John.” A wonderful change came over the scar-faced scout. He appeared to age ten years in as many seconds. With the words—“My God! My God! And I would have killed him!” He shouldered his rifle and hastened from the spot, leaving his companion staring after him. Ross slowly made his way toward the place where his messmates were preparing the morning meal. His mind was in a tumult. What was the meaning of it all? Who and what was the mysterious scout? “Why did the announcement of my name so affect him—and why did he wish to know the name of my father and mother?” he asked himself over and over. He forgot where he was and passed the spot he sought, without knowing it. He was aroused to a sense of his surroundings by hearing Farley bawl: