lady in the little phaeton pulled up her pony and met his gaze with a look of mute inquiry. She was a small, fair woman, with pale, regular features and large blue eyes. She was dressed in mourning, and, beyond a doubt, was not a native of Glenville.
"Excuse my haste, ma'am," said Doran, coming to the side of the phaeton. "I'm James Doran, owner of the stable where this horse belongs, and we are out in search of our schoolmaster. Have you seen a tall young man along this road anywhere?"
The lady was silent a moment, then—"Was he a fair young man?" she asked, slowly.
"Yes, tall and fair."
The lady gathered up her reins.
"I passed such a person," she said, "when I drove out of town shortly after breakfast. He was going south, as I was. It must have been somewhere not far from this place."
"And—did you see his face?"
"No; the pony was fresh then, and I was intent upon him."
She lifted the reins, and then turned as if to speak again when the man who had been a silent witness of the little dialogue came a step nearer.
"I s'pose you hav'n't heard any noise—a pistol shot—nor anythin' like that, have ye, ma'am?"
