"Go! I never want to see your face again."
With that, she left him. He stood perfectly still, staring after
the slender, boyish figure until it was hidden from view by the
bend of the stairway.
His eyes were glassy. Fear possessed his soul. Suddenly he was
aroused to action.
"I'd better get out of this," he muttered.
His hand clutched the weapon in his coat pocket as he strode swiftly
toward the front door. Once outside he paused to look furtively about
him before descending the porch steps. Several men were standing
near the gate. The porch was deserted. He wondered if Amos Vick was
down there waiting for him. Then he remembered what Alix had said
to him: "These people trust you,--they still trust you." What had
he to fear? He laughed,--a short, jerky, almost inaudible laugh,--and
went confidently down the walk. As he passed the little group
he uttered a brief "good night" to the men, and was rewarded by a
friendly response from all of them.
Down the moonlit road he trudged, his brain working rapidly,
feverishly. In his heart was the rage of defeat, in his soul the
clamour of fear,--not fear now of the dark strip of woods but of
the whole world about him. He communed aloud.
"The first thing to do is to pack. I've got to do that tonight.
I'm through here. The jig's up. She means it. How the devil did
she find out all this stuff?.
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