“Crank your wheel a trifle now.” The other did not move. “Who are you? Can't ye speak?” No answer. Albion leaned over his wheel, felt the seat rail of the other vehicle, and brought his face close to something white--white hair about the approximate outline of a face. By the hair crossed by the falling hat brim, by the shoulders seen vaguely to be bent forward, by the loose creaking wheels of the buck-board he knew Jay Dee. The two stood close and breathless, face to face, but featureless and apart by the unmeasured distance of obscurity. Albion felt a sudden uneasy thrill and drew back. He dreaded to hear Jay Dee's spiritless complaining voice, too much in the nature of that dusky, uncanny place. He felt as if something cold, damp and impalpable were drawing closer to him, whispering, calling his attention to the gorge, how black and steep! to the presence of Jay Dee, how near! to the close secret hemlocks covering the sky. This was not agreeable to a positive man, a man without fancies. Jay Dee sighed at last, softly, and spoke, piping, thin, half-moaning: “You're following me. Let me alone!” “I'm not following you,” said Albion hoarsely. “Crank your wheel!” “You're following me. I'm an old man. You're only fifty.” Albion breathed hard in the darkness. He did not understand either Jay Dee or himself. After a silence Jay Dee went on: “I haven't any kin but you, Albion, except Stephen Ballister and the Winslows. They're only fourth cousins.” Albion growled. “What do you mean?” “Without my making a will it'd come to you, wouldn't it? Seems to me as if you oughtn't to pester me, being my nearest kin, and me, I ain't made any will. I got a little property, though it ain't much. 'Twould clear your mortgage and make you easy.” “What d'you mean?” “Twenty dollars and costs,” moaned Jay Dee. “And me an old man, getting ready for his latter end soon. I ain't made my will, either. I ought to've done it.” What could Jay Dee mean? If he made no will his property would come to Albion. No will made yet. A hinted intention to make one in favor of Stephen Ballister or the Winslows. The foundry was mortgaged.--Jay was worth sixty thousand. Diggory Gorge was a dark whispering place of ancient crime, of more than one unexplained accident. The hemlocks whispered, the brook gurgled and glimmered. Such darkness might well cloak and cover the sunny instincts that look upwards, scruples of the social daylight. Would Jay Dee trap him to his ruin? Jay Dee would not expect to enjoy it if he were dead himself. But accidents befall, and men not seldom meet sudden deaths, and an open, free-speaking neighbor is not suspected. Success lies before him in the broad road. It rushed through Albion's mind, a flood, sudden, stupefying--thoughts that he could not master, push back, or stamp down. He started and roused himself; his hands were cold and shaking. He sprang from his buggy and cried angrily: