“They was fo' that Captain Murrell; seems like him and Mas'r Tom was mixed up in a sight of business.”
“When was this—recently?” inquired Carrington. He was turning this astonishing statement of the slave over in his mind.
“Well, no, Mas'r; seems like they ain't so thick here recently.”
“I reckon you'd better keep away from the big house yet a while,” said Carrington. “Instead of going there, stop at the Belle Plain landing. You'll find a raft tied up to the shore, it belongs to a man named Cavendish. Tell him what you know. That I've found Miss Malroy and the boy, tell him to cast off and drift down here. I'll run the keel boat aground the first chance I get, so tell him to keep a sharp lookout.”
A few minutes later they had separated, George to hurry away in search of the horse, and Carrington to pass back along the shore until he gained a point opposite the clearing. He whistled shrilly three times, and after an interval of waiting heard the splash of oars and presently saw a skiff steal out of the gloom.
“Who's there?” It was Bess who asked the question.
“Carrington,” he answered.
“Lucky you ain't met the other man!” she said as she swept her skiff alongside the bank.
“Lucky for him, you mean. I'll take the oars,” added Carrington as he entered the skiff.
Slowly the clearing lifted out of the darkness, then the keel boat became distinguishable; and Carrington checked the skiff by a backward stroke of the oars.