dunno. Mist' Joe. He might could." This offered no encouragement.

"He's been gone--ever since last night. Reckon he is in Fillmore?" He
caught the gleam of two eyes as Zeke partly turned to look at him.

"I dunno, Mist' Joe. Wheh you reckon he gone?" As yet the import had
failed to reach him.

For a short while they rolled along in silence, silence save for the
rattling labour of the car. The grade was growing steeper. On both
sides of the road the woods were encroaching and the only light was
the feeble one cast by the single uncertain lamp of the car. It barely
seemed to puncture the black.

"Mist' Bushrod ain' been home?" came Zeke's voice. The idea was
beginning to have effect.

"Not since yesterday morning."

For another interval, silence, and then: "Whuh Mist' Bushrod gone?
Reckon he gone to Louisville?" Perhaps the faint stirrings of a cell
of conscience. Who can say?

"Don't know, Zeke. Perhaps."

As though satisfied by this mutual exchange of confidence, Zeke lapsed
again into silence, and for a time nothing was heard save the voice of
the car and occasional sighing bursts of wind high up in the
tree-tops. Then there came a black line of shadow stretching across
their way, on up ahead, and above it a yellowish, greenish streak of
light where the clouds were breaking. Faint wisps of vapour went
curling slowly across the streak and there was a patch of blue, very
deep, and the momentary gleam of a star, and then they plunged into
the shadow.

The air grew cooler, almost cold. The woods had swept down upon the
road and engulfed it. Even the noise of the motor seemed quieter, and
above it could be heard whisperings and occasional crackings.
Something started up from a thicket by the side of the road and they
could hear it scurrying through the underbrush. Zeke moved up the
throttle and they began to move faster. And on either side of them
came down the darkness, sweeping past them, pressing close, and before
them wavered the faltering light, and the cool damp air came fingering
and touched their faces.

Zeke stopped the car. The rushing darkness stopped. The breeze was
still.

"Heah's de place," he said, and his voice was lower; Joe could barely
hear him.

"I thought it was Fillmore. This isn't Fillmore."

"I know," said Zeke. "I doesn' go to Fillmo'. Dis is de place whuh I
gets it. Up de paff a piece."

Joe was on the point of telling him to go on--on to Fillmore, where
proper inquiry might b