Leigh, meanwhile, turned off the main street into the quiet lane behind the church and stopped to think. He stopped, panting, on the very step where Virginia had stood talking with Dan. His hot young blood was beating in his head with a noise like a sledge-hammer. Fury choked him. He remembered his own hours of anguished suspense last night, Fanchon’s return after her accident, and her light kiss on his cheek. Her knight had received his accolade; he would not fail her! Sitting under the old tree where the scarlet-headed woodpecker had bored a neat hole, Leigh made up his mind. Bernstein had told the truth about Corwin--that he knew. He couldn’t doubt Bernstein. The little man’s earnestness had been apparent. Corwin must be dealt with. Leigh Carter would deal with him, too, at once. He was no child to run to his father. Besides, his father didn’t like Fanchon. Lately he had thought his father an unjust man. As for William--Leigh remembered William’s supine waiting last night. Leigh did not mean to wait now. He would carry out the thing he had in mind. He had read once of a man like Corwin slandering a noble lady. The hero--Leigh’s favorite hero, by the way--had seized a horse-pistol, ridden fifty miles on a mustang, confronted the villain, held his pistol to his head, and forced him to write and sign a retraction that made the lady’s character shine out as clear as noonday. Getting his breath on the old stone step of the church where he had been baptized, Leigh made up his mind as swiftly as the mustang had galloped. He took off his hat, wiped the drops of perspiration from his boyish forehead, and, straightening his collar and tie, rose and went straight home. It happened at the moment that there was no one in the house but Miranda and his mother. As he entered, he heard his mother’s voice in the kitchen. “Miranda, get me those pitted cherries. I’m going to make a pie for dinner. Leigh loves cherry pie!” He paused with his hand on the banister, thrilled with that poignant moment. Unknown to Mrs. Carter, her son was about to act a man’s great part, to avenge the honor of the family, and she--oh, grotesque thought--she was making cherry pie for him! But he could not wait even for such thoughts as these. He ran up-stairs and into his father’s room. In the upper draw of the old mahogany highboy was a pistol. Mr. Carter kept it loaded as a precaution against mythical burglars. Leigh found it, thrust it in his pocket, and walked slowly down the hall. Fanchon’s door was open. She had gone out, but she had left the room in sweet confusion. He caught sight of the trailing silk and chiffon of her tea-gown--one of the family amazements--lying across the bed. On a chair hung her riding-jacket, left to dry. There was an elusive fragrance of violets, the same fragrance that always hung about her person. Evidently she had forgotten her headache, or she had gone out to walk it off.