“Yes,” said Carrington shortly.
“You left these parts some time ago, I believe?” continued the judge.
“The day before Norton was shot. I had started home for Kentucky. I heard of his death when I reached Randolph on the second bluff,” explained Carrington, from whose cheeks the weather-beaten bloom had faded. He rested his hand on the edge of the desk and turned to the men who had followed him into the room. “This is the gentleman you wish to see,” he said, and stepped to one of the windows; it overlooked the terraces where he had said good-by to Betty scarcely a week before.
The two men had paused by the door. They now advanced. One was gaunt and haggard, his face disfigured by a great red scar, the other was a shockheaded individual who moved with a shambling gait. Both carried rifles and both were dressed in coarse homespun.
“Morning, sir,” said the man with the scar. “Yancy's my name, and this gentleman 'lows he'd rather be known now as Mr. Cavendish.”
The judge started to his feet.
“Bob Yancy?” he cried.
“Yes, sir, that's me.” The judge passed nimbly around the desk and shook the Scratch Hiller warmly by the hand. “Where's my nevvy, sir—what's all this about him and Miss Betty?” Yancy's soft drawl was suddenly eager.
“Please God we'll recover him soon!” said the judge.
By the window Carrington moved impatiently. No harm could come to the boy, but Betty—a shudder went through him.