uld not overtake easily, but she must see by what trail the
man left the Village.

Brom Bones was very willing to make a race for home, and she let him
have his head until she again caught sight of the man. She pulled up
sharply and forced the colt down to a walk. The man was still on the
main road, and he might turn any moment. Finally she saw him pull into
the trail that led over to Wilbur's Fork. Then she knew. Jeffrey was
somewhere on the trail between French Village and Wilbur's Fork. And
he was alive! The man was going now to make sure that he was still
there.

For an hour, the long, high twilight was enough to assure her that the
man was still following the trail. Then, just when the real darkness
had fallen, she heard a pony whinny in the woods at her left. The man
had turned off into the woods! She had almost passed him! She threw
herself out upon Brom Bones' neck and caught him by the nose. He threw
up his head indignantly and tried to bolt, but she blessed him for
making no noise. She drove on quietly a couple of hundred yards,
slipped down, and drew Brom Bones into the bushes away from the road
and tied him. She talked to him, patting his head and neck, pleading
with him to be quiet. Then she left him and stole back to where she
had heard the pony.

In the gloom of the woods she could see nothing. But her feet found
themselves on what seemed to be a path and she followed it blindly.
She almost walked into a square black thing that suddenly confronted
her. Within what seemed a foot of her she heard voices. Her heart
stopped beating, but the blood rang in her ears so that she could not
distinguish a word. One of the voices was certainly Gadbeau's. The
other-- It was!-- It was! Though it was only a mumble, she knew it was
Jeffrey Whiting who tried to speak!

She took a step forward, ready to dash into the place, whatever it
was. But the caution of the hills made her back away noiselessly into
the brush. What could she do? Why? Oh, _why_ had she not brought a
rifle? Gadbeau was sure to be armed. Jeffrey was a prisoner, probably
wounded and bound.

She backed farther into the bushes and started to make a circuit of
the place. She understood now that it was a sugar hut, built entirely
of logs, even the roof. It was as strong as a blockhouse. She knew
that she was helpless. And she knew that Jeffrey would not be a
prisoner there unless he were hurt.

She could only wait. Gadbeau had not come to injure Jeffr