Carvel he sought, for I feared lest
my grandfather had got into some lawsuit.

"And it please your honour, Mr. Grafton Carvel," said he; "your uncle, I
understand. Unfortunately he has gone to his estate in Kent County,
whither I must now follow him."

I bade Mr. Claude summon my servant, not stopping to question the man
further, such was my resentment against him. And in ten minutes we were
out of the town again, galloping between the nearly filled tracks of the
coaches, now three hours ahead of us. The storm was increasing, and the
wind cutting, but I dug into Cynthia so that poor Hugo was put to it to
hold the pace, and, tho' he had a pint of rum in him, was near perished
with the cold. As my anger cooled somewhat I began to wonder how Mr.
Silas Ridgeway, whoever he was, could have been such a simpleton as his
story made him out. Indeed, he looked more the rogue than the ass; nor
could I conceive how reliable barristers could hire such a one. I wished
heartily that I had exhausted him further, and a suspicion crossed my
brain that he might have come to Mr. Allen, who had persuaded him to
deliver a letter to Grafton intended for me. Some foreboding beset me,
and I was once close to a full mind for going back, and slacked Cynthia's
pace to a trot. But the thought of the pleasures at Upper Marlboro' and
the hope of overtaking the party at Mr. Dorsey's place, over the
Patuxent, where they looked to dine, decided me in pushing on. And thus
we came to South River, with the snow so thick that we could scarce see
ten yards in front of us.

Beyond, the road winds up the hill'around the end of Mr. Wiley's
plantation and plunges shortly into the woods, gray and cold indeed
to-day. At their skirt a trail branches off which leads to Mr. Whey's
warehouses, on the water's edge a mile or so below. And I marked that
this path was freshly trodden. I recall a small shock of surprise at
this, for the way was used only in the early autumn to connect with some
fields beyond the hill. And then I heard a sharp cry from Hugo and
pulled Cynthia short. He was some ten paces behind me.

"Marse Dick!" he shouted, the whites of his eyes rolled up. "We'se gwine
to be robbed, Marse Dick." And he pointed to the footprints in the snow;
"somefin done tole Hugo not come to-day."

"Nonsense!" I cried; "Mr. Wiley is making his lazy beggars cut wood
against Christmas."

When in this temper the poor fellow had more fear of me than of aught
else, and