“We caught him over on the Purcell farm,” mused Duncan.  “Something ailed Ruggam.  He was drunk and couldn’t run.  But that wasn’t all.  He had had some kind of crazy-spell during or after the killing and wasn’t quite over it.  We tied him and lifted him into the auto.  His face was a sight.  His eyes aren’t mates, anyhow, and they were wild and unnatural.  He kept shrieking something about a head of hair—­black hair—­sticks up like wire.  He must have had an awful impression of Mart’s face and that hair of his.”

“I remember about Aunt Mary Crumpett’s telling me of the trouble her husband had with his prisoner in the days before the trial,” his wife replied.  “He had those crazy-spells often, nights.  He kept yelling that he saw Martin Wiley’s head with its peculiar hair, and his face peering in at him through the cell window.  Sometimes he became so bad that Sheriff Crumpett thought he’d have apoplexy Finally he had to call Dr. Johnson to attend him.”

“Five thousand dollars!” muttered Duncan.  “Gawd!  I’d hunt the devil for nothing if I only had a chance of getting out of this bed.”

Cora smoothed her husband’s rumpled bed, comforted him and laid her own tired head down beside his hand.  When he had dozed off, she arose and left the room.

In the kitchen she resumed her former place beside the table with the cheap red cloth; and there, with her face in her hands, she stared into endless distance.

“Five thousand dollars!  Five thousand dollars!” Over and over she whispered the words, with no one to hear.

The green-birch fire snapped merrily in the range.  The draft sang in the flue.  Outside, a soft, feathery snow was falling, for winter came early in the uplands of Vermont this past year.  To Cora McBride, however, the winter meant only hardship.  Within another week she must go into town and secure work.  Not that she minded the labour nor the trips through the vicious weather!  The anguish was leaving Duncan through those monotonous days before he should be up and around.  Those dreary winter days!  What might they not do to him—­alone.

Five thousand dollars!  Like many others in the valley that night she pictured with fluttering heart what it would mean to possess such a sum of money; but not once in her pitiful flight of fancy did she disregard the task which must be performed to gain that wealth.

It meant traveling upward in the great snowbound reaches of Vermont mountain-country and tracking down a murderer who had killed a second time to gain his freedom and would stop at nothing again.

And yet—­five thousand dollars!

How much will a person do, how far will a normal human being travel, to earn five thousand dollars—­if the need is sufficiently provocative?

As Cora McBride sat there in the homely little farmhouse kitchen and thought of the debts still existent, contracted to save the already stricken lives of two little lads forgotten now by all but herself and Duncan and God, of the chances of losing their home if Duncan could work no more and pay up the balance of their mortgage, of the days when Duncan must lie in the south bedroom alone and count the figures on the wallpaper—­as she sat there and contemplated these things, into Cora McBride’s heart crept determination.