her replies.

"Well, sir"--the sheriff strolled back into the room--"I reckon these
aren't the parties we're after. But look a-here, this is a description
of Ham Rutherford. Likely you might have had a glimpse of him since
you came into the country. When he made his getaway he was about
thirty-two, height five feet eight, ugly, black-haired, noticeable
eyes, manner violent. He was deformed, one leg shorter, one shoulder
higher than the other, mouth twisted, and a scar across the nose.
He'd been hurt in a fire when he was a child--"

Sylvie broke into a spontaneous ripple of mirth, the full measure
of her relief. "Goodness," she said with utter spontaneity. "There's
certainly never been a monster like that in this house, has there,
Pete?"

It did more than all that had gone before to convince the inquisitors.
From that minute there was a distinct relaxation; the evening, indeed,
turned to one of sociability.

"We hate to inconvenience you, ma'am, but it seems like at this
distance from town we've got to ask you for supper and a place to
sleep."

If it had not been for the thought of Hugh in hiding, that supper
and the evening about the hearth would have been to Sylvie a pleasant
one. The men, apparently laying aside all suspicion, were
entertaining; their adventurous lives had bristled with exciting,
moving, humorous experience. It was Sylvie herself, prompted by
curiosity, believing as she did that the monster the sheriff had