plainly defined—the upper part of the face is dim, as if obscured by a gray mist of dawn—but the massive jaws and lips are clear—merciful God!—yes!—it's Gus!"
The doctor leaped to his feet livid with excitement.
Ben bent again, looked long and eagerly, but could see nothing.
"I'm afraid the image is in your eye, sir, not the mother's" said Ben, sadly.
"That's possible, of course," said the doctor, "yet I don't believe it."
"I've thought of the same scoundrel and tried blood hounds on that track, but for some reason they couldn't follow it. I suspected him from the first, and especially since learning that he left for Columbia on the early morning train on pretended official business."
"Then I'm not mistaken," insisted the doctor, trembling with excitement. "Now do as I tell you. Find when he returns. Capture him, bind, gag, and carry him to your meeting-place under the cliff, and let me know."
On the afternoon of the funeral, two days later, Ben received a cypher telegram from the conductor of the train telling him that Gus was on the evening mail due at Piedmont at nine o'clock.
The papers had been filled with accounts of the accident, and an enormous crowd from the county, and many admirers of the fiery lyrics of the poet-father, had come from distant parts to honour his name. All business was suspended, the entire white population of the village followed the bodies to their last resting-place.
As the crowds returned to their homes, no notice was
