“You’d lose your way, sure.”
“Nonsense.”
The man’s manner was so uneasy that Carington at once concluded that the trail might lead near to the object of his search.
“Good night,” he said, abandoning his intention to question Joe. “I shall take the brook trail. Don’t come with me. I see you are very lame.”
“Don’t you try that way, sir. You—you—I got stuck in that swamp last fall. It’s real bad.”
Carington was now still more certain of the cause of the lumberman’s persistent warnings. “I’ll risk it,” he said and set off. “Good night.”
“Good night. Keep the left side, if you will take the trail.”
“All right, Joe.”
He crossed the rivulet, and kept to the right bank. Joe stood a moment looking after him. The brook-path would bring Carington full in sight of the tombstone, and the shadows were not yet deep enough to hide it. A great fear came upon him of a sudden. He turned, and ran limping back to the house.
“What is it?” she cried, as he stumbled in. “Is he dead? Have you done it?”