As one moving without conscious purpose, Brian Kent went from the
house,--the manuscript in his hand.

Judy was sitting idly on the porch steps. At sight of the mountain girl
the man knew all at once that there was one thing he must do. He must
make sure that there was no mistake. He was already sure, of course; but
still, as a condemned man at the scaffold hopes against hope for a stay
of sentence, so he caught at the shadowy suggestion of a possibility.

"Come with me, Judy," he said, forcing himself to speak coolly; "I want
to talk with you."

Judy arose, and, looking at him in her stealthy, oblique way, said,
in her drawling monotone: "What's happened ter Auntie Sue? Was there
somethin' in that there letter Bud Jackson give you-all for her what's
upset her?"

"Auntie Sue's brother is dead, Judy," Brian answered. "She wishes to be
alone, and we must not disturb her. She will be all right in a little
while. Come, let us walk down toward the bluff."

When they had reached a spot on the river-bank a short distance above
the Elbow Rock cliff, Brian said to his companion: "Judy, I want you
to tell me something. Did Auntie Sue ever send money in a letter to the
Empire Consolidated Savings Bank, in Chicago?"

"The black, beady eyes shifted evasively, and the mountain girl turned
her sallow, old-young face away from Brian's direct gaze.

"Look at me, Judy."