"Where is Grace? What is this story I hear?" he asked excitedly.
The farmer handed him the note, which he read hurriedly and then tossed upon the floor.
"It's a lie! a false, cruel lie!" he cried. "My darling never wrote that—never could write it. It's the work of that villain, Walden. Do you know what I have just heard? Tom Walden was arrested on a charge of forgery in Chicago—would have gone to prison, for his conviction was certain, but jumped his bail, and fled. His name is not Walden at all. There is a man at the hotel who knows all about him, and described him this very hour. More than that, there is an old indictment against him in New York for murder. The plea was self-defence, and the case never came to trial. Now they have new evidence that he deliberately murdered the man. He was then known as Tom Walden. My Grace run away with a man like that! Never! He has carried her off, and has written this note himself to deceive us. He has stolen her, but I will pursue him and bring her back, if I have to kill him to do it!"
Then, without further words, he rushed from the house into the darkness.
The next morning he had disappeared, and no one knew where he had gone, nor for months did the settlers hear tidings of him or of Grace or of Tom Walden.
In one of the wildest parts of the Northwest woods an Indian village had been built.
There were no white settlers within many miles, and the tribe was said to be a peaceful one, never going on the warpath, and always treating with kindness the few straggling whites who made their way into this wilderness.
In one of the larger lodges of the village, one pleasant afternoon in the late autumn, were a man of about forty and a girl not much over twenty.
The girl's complexion was fair, and she had none of the characteristics of the Indian, although dressed like one.