They had already erected one, and his message went off with a batch of others. This time he was determined not to trust to chance. The shock may have brought back Florence's recent mental disorder, and she may have wandered off without knowing what she was doing. On the other hand, she may have been carried off. And against such a contingency he must be fortified. Money! The curse of God was upon it; it was the trail of the serpent, spreading poison in its wake. By and by the countess was able to walk; and, supporting her, he led her to the road, along which they walked slowly for at least an hour. They might very well have waited for the relief train. But he could not stand the thought of inactivity. The countess had her choice of staying behind or going with him. He hated the woman, but he could not refuse her aid. She had a cut on the side of her head, and she limped besides. They stopped at the first farmhouse, explained what had happened, and the mistress urged them to enter. She had seen no one, and certainly not a young woman. She must have wandered off in another direction. She ran into the kitchen for a basin and towel and proceeded to patch the countess' hurts. The latter was extremely uneasy. That she should be under obligation to Norton galled her. There was a spark of conscience left in her soul. She had tried to destroy him, and he had been kind to her. Was he a fool or was he deep, playing a game as shrewd as her own? She could not tell. Where was Vroon? Had he carried Florence off? An hour later a man came in. "Hullo! More folks from the wreck?" "Where's the horse and buggy, Jake?" his wife asked. "Rented it to a man whose daughter was hurt. He went to the village." "Will you describe the daughter?" asked Norton. The countess twisted her fingers. The farmer rudely described Florence. "Have you another horse and a saddle?" "What's your hurry?" "I'll tell you later. What I want now is the horse." "What is to become of me?" asked the countess. "You will be in good hands," he answered briefly. "I am going to find out what has become of Florence. Is there a deserted farmhouse hereabouts?" he asked of the farmer. "Not that I recollect." "Why yes, there is, Jake. There's that old hut about two miles up the fork," volunteered the wife. "Where the Swede died last winter." "By jingo! I'm going into the village and see if that man brought in the rig." "But get my horse first. My name is James Norton, and I am on the _Blade_ in New York. Which way do I go?" "First turn to the left. Come on; I'll get the horse for you." Once the horse was saddled, Norton set off at a run. He was unarmed; he forgot all about this fact. His one thought was to find the woman he loved. He was not afraid of meeting a dozen men, not while his present fury lasted. And he fell into an ambush within a hundred yards of his goal. They dragged him off the horse and buffeted and mishandled him into the hut.