"Live it down! Do you know what that means—in a college?"
"Yes, I think I do, Hugo."
"You can live down almost anything, except that one thing—murder. It's too ugly, Woodie."
"Maybe. Maybe. You've got to decide, son. If you decide against trying—and, mind you, you might be justified—I've got a brother-in-law who has a ranch in Alberta. A couple of hundred miles from any place. You'd be welcome there."
Hugo did not reply. He took the coach's hand and wrung it. Then for an hour the two men sat side by side in the darkness. At last Woodman rose and left. He said only: "Remember that offer. It's cold and bleak and the work is hard. Good-night, Hugo."
"Good-night, Woodie. Thanks for coming up."
When the campus was still with the quiet of sleep, Hugo crossed it as swiftly as a spectre. All night he strode remorselessly over country roads. His face was set. His eyes burned. He ignored the trembling of his joints. When the sky faded, he went back. He packed his clothes in two suit-cases. With them swinging at his side, he stole out of the Psi Delta house, crossed the campus, stopped. For a long instant he stared at Webster Hall. The first light of morning was just touching it. The débris collected for a fire that was never lighted was strewn around the cannon. He saw the initials he had painted there a year and more ago still faintly legible. A lump rose in his throat.
"Good-by, Webster," he said. He lifted the suitcase and vanished. In a few minutes the campus was five miles behind him—six—ten—twenty. When he saw the first early caravan of produce headed toward the market, he slowed to a walk. The sun came over a hill and sparkled on a billion drops of dew. A bird flew singing from his path. Hugo Danner had fled beyond the gates of Webster.