ak and, turning suddenly,
saw a man dart like a shadow around the side of the house. For a
moment he stood in indecision; then he walked softly to the open front
door and stood waiting on the threshold. It would be easier to explain
his presence there. The sky had grown darker; curling billows of cloud
rolling in from the south had chased away the orange glow and their
under surface was lit by a pale-green luminance as they came. Shifting
wisps of vapour slid twisting and writhing on up ahead, like outriders
on reconnaissance. It was singularly still.

Joe stood and waited. Directly he heard a sound, and then steps echoed
on the walk around the side of the cabin, and then a man came hurrying
around the corner, took one step up on the cabin stair, and then fell
back with a low cry: "Fo' de Lawd."

It was Zeke. The smoothness of his skin turned an ashen colour and the
whites of his eyes were rolling. He pushed back away from the doorway
and stared at Joe. Gradually the terror began to fade out of his face
and it was superseded by a sickly grin. Joe was watching him closely.

"You plum skeered me to deff," he finally managed to say, his breath
coming fast and thick. "Thought you wuz a ghos'." The grin was very
weak and it quickly subsided.

Zeke was a gaunt "darky" of that peculiar transparent blackness that
looks as though it is put on only one layer deep, and yet is black,
not brown. He was thin and shambling, with high and prominent
cheekbones and eyes that showed a lot of white at all times. Across
one cheek was a long, purplish scar reaching up to the corner of one
eye. It gave him a look of cunning from that quarter. But on the whole
he was an ineffectual, shiftless looking Negro, with hands that were
always dangling and feet that always dragged.

"Ain' seen you fo' a long time, Mist' Joe."

"No. I've been away--down in the city." He paused a moment,
considering the best way to begin. "Where were you and Mr. Bushrod
last night?" he ventured on a bold stroke.

Zeke's eyes opened wide. "Why, we wusn' no place, Mist' Joe, Mist'
Bushrod, he--I was to bring him--he and I wuz to have a little bisnis
ovah to de house, but I couldn' come." His face clouded and took on
an anxious look. "Dey ain' no trubbel, is dey, Mist' Joe?"

Joe made no reply and Zeke watched his thoughtful, serious face with
growing anxiety. Here was one more avenue of possible solution
blocked. Since yesterday afternoon no one had apparently see