I am aware of your prejudices, Solomon;
otherwise I might ask this favor of you."
Mr. Mahaffy snorted loudly and turned to the door, for Yancy and
Cavendish were now approaching the house, the latter with a meal
sack slung over his shoulder.
"Here, Solomon, take one of my pistols," urged the judge hastily.
"You may need it at Belle Plain. Goodby, and God bless you!"
Just where he had parted from Ware, Carrington sat his horse, his
brows knit and his eyes turned in the direction of the path. He
was on his way to a plantation below Girard, the owner of which
had recently imported a pack of bloodhounds; but this unexpected
encounter with Ware had affected him strangely. He still heard
Tom's stammering speech, he was still seeing his ghastly face,
and he had come upon him with startling suddenness. He had
chanced to look back over his shoulder and when he faced about
there had been the planter within a hundred yards of him.
Presently Carrington's glance ceased to follow the windings of
the path. He stared down at the gray dust and saw the trail left
by Hues and his party. For a moment he hesitated; if the dogs
were to be used with any hope of success he had no time to spare,
and this was the merest suspicion, illogical conjecture, based on
nothing beyond his distrust of Ware. In the end he sprang from
the saddle and leading his horse into the woods, tied it to a
sapling.
A hurried investigation told him that five men had ridden in and
out of that path.
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