“Damn you, Joe; you might have waited!” observed the outlaw. Slosson gave him a hardened grin. They crossed the clearing and boarded the keel boat which rested against the bank. As they did so, the cabin in the stern gave up a shattered presence in the shape of Tom Ware. Murrell started violently. “I thought you were hanging out in Memphis, Tom?” he said, and his brow darkened as, sinister and forbidding, he stepped closer to the planter. Ware did not answer at once, but looked at Murrell out of heavy bloodshot eyes, his face pinched and ghastly. At last he said, speaking with visible effort,
“I stayed in Memphis until five o'clock this morning.”
“Damn your early hours!” roared Murrell. “What are you doing here? I suppose you've been showing that dead face of yours about the neighborhood—why didn't you stay at Belle Plain since you couldn't keep away?”
“I haven't been near Belle Plain, I came here instead. How am I going to meet people and answer questions?” His teeth were chattering. “Is it known she's missing?” he added.
“Hicks raised the alarm the first thing this morning, according to the instructions I'd given him.”
“Yes?” gasped Ware. He was dripping from every pore and the sickly color came and went on his unshaven cheeks. Murrell dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“You haven't been at Belle Plain, you say, but has any one seen you on the road this morning?”
“No one, John,” cried Ware, panting between each word. There was a moment's pause and Ware spoke again. “What are they doing at Belle Plain?” he demanded in a whisper. Murrell's lips curled.
“I understand there is talk of suicide,” he said.
“Good!” cried Ware.