Fear was in Kerry's heart. "An' what'll you be doin'?" he inquired,
huskily.

"Me?" asked Andy, listlessly. "Euola she's done gone plumb back on me," he
explained. "I hain't heard one word from her sence the trouble, an' I've
got that far I hain't a-keerin' what becomes of me. I like you, Dan; I'd
ruther you had the money--"

"Oh, my Gawd! Don't, Andy," choked the Irishman. "Let me think, man," as
the other's surprised gaze dwelt on him. Up to this time all Kerry's
faculties had been engrossed in what was told him, or that which went on
before his eyes. Now memory suddenly roused in him. The woman he had seen
back at Asheville, the woman who called herself Mandy Greefe, but whom the
police there suspected of being Andy Proudfoot's wife, whom they had twice
endeavored, unsuccessfully, to follow in long, secret excursions into the
mountains. What was the story? What had they said? That she was seeking
Proudfoot, or was in communication with him; that was it! They had warned
Kerry that the woman was mild-looking (he had seen her patient, wistful
face the last thing as he left Asheville), but that she might do him a
mischief if she suspected he was on the trail of her husband. "My Lord! Oh,
my Lord! W'y, old man,--w'y, Andy boy!" he cried, joyously, patting the
shoulder of the big man, who still knelt with the roll of money in his
hands,--"Andy, she's waitin' fer you--she's true as steel! She's ready to
go with you. Yes, an' Dan Kerry's the boy to git ye out o' this under the
very noses o' that police an' detective gang at Asheville. 'Tis you an' me
that'll go together, Andy."

Proudfoot still knelt. His nostrils flickered; his eyes glowed. "Have a
care what you're a-sayin'," he began, in a low, shaking voice. "Euola!