The night was hushed, and the peace that falls before dawn was upon the wet, flat lands. Somewhere in the sodden grass a swamped cricket chirped. From an outlying flange of the village a dog's howl rose mournfully; was answered by another, far away, and by another and another. The sonorous chorus rose above the village, died away, and quiet fell again.
Helen sat by the window, no comfort touching her heart. Tears coursed her cheeks no longer, but her eyes were wide and staring, and her lips parted, for the hush was broken by the far clamor of the court-house bell ringing in the night. It rang, and rang, and rang, and rang. She could not breathe. She threw open the window. The bell stopped. All was quiet once more. The east was growing gray.
Suddenly out of the stillness there came the sound of a horse galloping over a wet road. He was coming like mad. Some one for a doctor? No; the horse-hoofs grew louder, coming out from the town, coming this way, coming faster and faster, coming here. There was a splashing and trampling in front of the house and a sharp “Whoa!” In the dim gray of first dawn she made out a man on a foam-flecked horse. He drew up at the gate.
A window to the right of hers went screeching up. She heard the judge clear his throat before he spoke.
“What is it? That's you, isn't it, Wiley? What is it?” He took a good deal of time and coughed between the sentences. His voice was more than ordinarily quiet, and it sounded husky. “What is it, Wiley?”
“Judge, what time did Mr. Harkless leave here last night and which way did he go?”
There was a silence. The judge turned away from the window. Minnie was standing just outside his door. “It must have been about half-past nine, wasn't it, father?” she called in a shaking voice. “And, you know, Helen thought he went west.”
“Wiley!” The old man leaned from the sill again.
“Yes!” answered the man on horseback.
“Wiley, he left about half-past nine—just before the storm. They think he went west.”