That evening Ned Campbell called, as usual since Fred’s disappearance, to report progress. It was the same story of baffled search. Nothing had been learned regarding the missing man. Mark Haley seemed deeply interested in the story, but could offer no suggestion that had not already been tried. Hawksley sunk into a troubled reverie, and then abruptly retired, first showing Haley his room. An hour later Ned Campbell took his departure, sad and heart-sick. For several months he had been Fannie’s accepted suitor, but never until this night had she set the time for their wedding. “Ned,” she had said, looking up into his bold, handsome face, as his arms tightly encircled her lithe, rounded form, “I can not marry until Fred returns home, or—or is found. If alive, bring him here; if dead, bring me proof, and I will be yours. In this horrible uncertainty, I can think of nothing else. It is killing mother and father. Bring him back to us, and I am yours.” “If man can do it, Fannie, I will. But there seems little hope. Think what we have done—how we have searched. But, God helping me, I will find him. If only for your sake, I will not rest until I do. Good-by, darling. I will not come any more until I can bring you tidings, either good or bad. It only makes the work harder. Seeing your grief unnerves me. Good-by; pray for my success, and hope for the best, darling.” “God bless you, Ned,” she answered, her bright eyes dimmed with tears. “You deserve a better girl than I am, but I will make you happy if I can.” Campbell dared not reply in words, but their lips met in a long, clinging kiss of pure and holy love, then he tore himself away, and mounting his horse, galloped furiously away toward his own home. Mechanically, Fannie closed and secured the door and windows, then covered up the embers in the fire-place with ashes, and taking a candle, slowly ascended the stairs to her chamber. Though she knew it not, eager eyes were fixed upon her form until the door closed behind her—eyes that burned with an evil glow—the eyes of Mark Haley, the drover. The building was quiet and still. All seemed buried in profound slumber; but there was one pair of eyes that thought not of closing; one brain that was busy concocting a piece of diabolical treachery. Nearly two hours passed by after Mark Haley watched Fannie Hawksley to her chamber, before he made a move. Then, with moccasins upon his feet, instead of the heavy boots, he noiselessly emerged from his room, having in one hand a small bull’s-eye lantern, the slide only partially turned. In the other he held a small patch of what looked like soiled paper or cloth, and a coil of stout string. The bushy black beard seemed one-sided, as though it was false, and had become slightly disarranged.