The sheriff rose instantly with that cumbrous agility sometimes characterizing portly men. “There he is now!” he exclaimed.
But Meddy, with a little hysterical cry, had sprung first to the opening door. “Barton Smith!” she exclaimed, with shrill significance. “Hyar is yer guide, Sher’ff, wet ez a drownded rat.”
The pale face in the dark aperture of the doorway, as the fire-light flashed on it, grew ghastly white with terror and lean with amazement. For a moment the man seemed petrified. Seymour, vaguely fumbling with his suspicions, began to disintegrate the plot of the play, and to discriminate the powers of the dramatis personæ.
“Now, my man, step lively,” said the officer in his big, husky voice. “Do you know this Royston McGurny?”
To be sure, Seymour had no cause for suspicion but his own intuition and the intangible evidence of tone and look all as obvious to the others as to him. But he was at once doubtful and relieved when the haggard wretch at the door, mustering his courage, replied: “Know Royston McGurny! None better. Knowed him all my life.”
“Got pretty good horse?”
“Got none at all; expect ter borry Mr. Kettison’s.”
“I’ll go show ye whar the saddle be,” exclaimed Meddy, with her wonted officious-ness, and glibly picking up the bits of her shattered scheme. Seymour fully expected they would not return from the gloom without, whither they had disappeared, but embrace the immediate chance of escape before the inopportune arrival of the real Barton Smith should balk the possibility. But, no,—and he doubted anew all his suspicions,—in a trice here they both were again, a new courage, a new hope in that pallid, furtive face, and another horse stood saddled among the equine group at the door. Meddlesome was pinning up the brown skirt of her gown, showing a red petticoat that had harmonies with a coarse, red plaid shawl adjusted over her head and shoulders.
“Gran’dad,” she observed, never looking up, and speaking with her mouth full of pins, “Barton Smith say he kin set me down at Aunt Drusina’s house. Ye know she be ailin’, an’ sent for me this evenin’; but I hed no way ter go.”
The sheriff looked sour enough at this intrusion; but he doubtless imagined that this relative was no distant neighbor, and as he had need of hearty aid and popular support, he offered no protest.