The night was a lovely one, and he could pass a half-hour upon the stump with reflections not more wretched than those that awaited him in his sleeping-chamber.
He was still within earshot of Jerry Rook’s house, and he had scarce ignited his cigar, when a sound reached his ear from that direction.
It was the yelp of a hound, close followed by the animal’s howling.
Soon after was heard the voice of a man speaking in harsh accents, and soon after this another voice—a woman’s.
On the still silent night they were borne to Brandon’s ears with sufficient distinctness for him to recognise them as the voices of Jerry Rook and his daughter. It did not need either the angry accent of the one, nor the affecting tone of the other, to draw Alf Brandon to the spot.
Starting up from the stump, and flinging himself over the fence, he proceeded towards the place where the voices were still heard in excited and earnest conversation.
Had Brandon not feared discovering himself to the speakers, he might have been up in time to see Pierre Robideau step forth from the cavity of the tree, and Lena Rook protecting him from the wrath of her father.
But the necessity of approaching unobserved, by skulking along the creek and keeping under cover of the canes, delayed him, and he only arrived behind the cottonwood as the young lady was being ordered into the house.
For Alfred Brandon, there was surprise enough without that. The presence of Pierre Robideau, whose name he had heard distinctly pronounced, with the sight of a tall form, dimly shaded under the tree, which he knew must be that of the murdered man, was sufficient to astonish him to his heart’s content.
It had this effect; and he stood behind the cottonwood, whose shelter he had reached, in speechless wonder, trembling from the crown to the toes.