Betty laughed not quite steadily. "You are to be congratulated." She spoke with a mockery and malice so neatly balanced that for a swift second he failed to reply. "I recovered," he stated, more forcefully. "Others didn't." His glance held hers. "Paul is dead, but Alan Mason still lives in his fool's paradise." With one spring she gained her feet and faced him, trembling with rage and excitement. "After all, Guy Trenholm, the role of sheriff becomes you," she said, and the scorn in her voice stung him. "Water seeks its own level." She turned away, snatched her coat from a chair where she had left it that morning and swung out of the door. Trenholm sat where he was for fully five minutes after the front door had closed behind Betty. When he rose he was still frowning. Going over to his bag he tossed the package of letters inside, snapped the bag to, locked it, and taking up his cap went in search of Martha Corbin. Betty was unconscious of the distance she walked or the direction she took. She was grateful for the cool breeze that fanned her hot cheeks. Seldom had she felt in such a fever; her throat was dry--parched. She paused long enough to wipe tiny beads of moisture from her forehead with an already damp handkerchief. She had spent the night in choking back sobs which racked her slender body. Toward morning she had slept fitfully from pure exhaustion. Only a relentless purpose spurred her to get up, regardless of the early hour, a purpose frustrated by-- Betty drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. She stopped and gazed about for a familiar landmark. She knew the countryside fairly well, and it did not take her long to locate the road which led to Upper Marlboro. She found it drier walking on its crest and trudged slowly along, keeping a wary eye out for automobiles which would make necessary a hasty run for the side of the road. She judged that she had covered about half the distance when, in passing a wood which she remembered was located on Abbott's property, she saw a man running through the trees in her direction. Something furtive in his movements as he dodged among the leafless trees and bushes caused her heart to beat more rapidly, and she cast a glance behind her. No vehicle, horse-drawn or motor-driven, was in sight. Betty faltered and came to a stop, then, throwing off her unreasoning fear, she hurried forward, glancing neither to the right nor the left. Betty had passed the wood and was breathing more easily when she detected the sound of following footsteps and she heard her name called once, and then again with more insistence. She kept straight ahead, for if recollection did not play her false, a farmhouse was around the next bend in the road. She had almost gained the turn, when a man's shadow was thrown on the snow just in front of her, and facing to her left she found Charles Corbin, the caretaker, at her side.