y Kilday,
was the only one who suspected the truth. A momentary temptation
seized him to hold his peace; if Ricks were caught, it would be time
enough to tell what he knew; if he escaped, one more stain on his name
might not matter.

But Carter, the coward, where was he? It was his place to speak. Would
he let Ricks bear his guilt and suffer the blame? Such burning rage
against him rose in Sandy that he paced the room in fury.

Then he re-read Ruth's note and again he hesitated. What a heaven of
promise it opened to him! Ruth was probably waiting for him now.
Everything might be different when he saw her again.

All his life he had followed the current; the easy way was his way,
and he came back to it again and again. His thoughts shifted and
formed and shifted again like the bits of color in a kaleidoscope.

Presently his restless eyes fell on an old chromo hanging over the
mantel. It represented the death-bed of Washington. The dying figure
on the bed recalled that other figure down-stairs. In an instant all
the floating forms in his brain assumed one shape and held it.

The judge must be his first consideration. He had been shot down
without cause, and might pay his life for it. There was but one thing
to do: to find the real culprit, give him up, and take the
consequences.

Slipping the note in one pocket and the revolver in another, he
hurried down-stairs.

On the lowest step he found Mrs. Hollis sitting in the dark. Her hands
were locked around her knees, and hard, dry sobs shook her body.

In an instant he was down beside her, his arms about her. "He isn't
dead?" he whispered fearfully.

Mrs. Hollis shook her head. "He hasn't moved an inch or spoken since
we put him on the bed. Are you going with the men?"

"I'm going to town now," said Sandy, evasively.

She rose and caught him by the arm. Her eyes were fierce with
vindictiveness.

"Don't let them stop till they've caught him, Sandy. I hope they will
hang him to-night!"

A movement in the sick-room called her within, and Sandy hurried out
to the buggy, which was still standing at the gate.

He lighted the lantern and, throwing the robe across his knees,
started for town. The intense emotional strain under which he had
labored since noon, together with fatigue, was beginning to play
tricks with his nerves. Twice he pulled in his horse, thinking he
heard voices in the wood. The third time he stopped and got out. At
infrequent intervals a groan b