her esteem—to permit her confidence in me to become changed into suspicion.
"Then I will go on," I said more slowly, endeavoring better to arrange my story. "I picked up a guide at Fayette, but the officer in command there could spare no escort. The man who went with me must have been a traitor, for he guided me south into the Green Briar Mountains. Last night at dusk we rode into a camp of guerrillas."
"Who commanded them? Did you learn?"
"A gray-headed, seamed-faced mountaineer, they called Cowan."
She emitted a quick breath, between closely pressed lips.
"You know the man?" I asked.
"Yes; old Ned Cowan; he lived over yonder, east of here in the foot-hills. He and—and my father had some trouble before the war. He—he is vindictive and dangerous." She stopped, her glance sweeping about the room. "I—I have some reason to suspect," she added, as if half doubting whether she ought to speak the word, "that either he, or one of his men, broke in here."
"In search of something?"
"A paper; yes—a deed. Of course I may be mistaken; only it is not to be found. The desk in the library was rifled, and its contents scattered over
