“That’s praise for a fellow!” said John.

Ann had the courage of her race and meant at last to see this thing through at all costs.  The man had made his money and should have it.  She was now resolute to take her share in the perilous matter she had started; and after all she was the wife of James Penhallow of Grey Pine; who would dare to question her?  As to George Grey, she dismissed him with a low laugh and wondered when that long-desired guest would elect to leave Grey Pine.

At ten on Monday Billy, for choice, drove her over to the bank at the mills.  The young cashier was asked about his sick sister, and then rather surprised as he took the cheque inquired, “How will you have it, ma’am?  Josiah must be getting an investment.”

“One hundred in fifties and the rest—­oh, fifty in fives, the rest in ones.”

She drove away, and in an hour gave the notes to John in an envelope, asking no questions.  He set off in the afternoon to give Josiah his money.

Meanwhile on this Monday morning a strange scene in this drama was being acted in Josiah’s little shop.  He was at the door watchful and thinking of his past and too doubtful future, when he saw Peter Lamb pause near by.  The man, fresh from the terrors of delirium tremens, had used the gift of Grey with some prudence and was in the happy condition of slight alcoholic excitement and good-humour.

“Halloa!” cried Peter.  “How are you?  I’m going to the mills to see my girl—­want you to shave me—­got over my joke; funny, wasn’t it?”

A sudden ferocious desire awoke in the good-natured barber—­some long-past inheritance of African lust for the blood of an enemy.

“Don’t like to kiss with a rough beard,” said Peter.  “I’ll pay—­got money—­now.”

“Come in,” said Josiah.  “Set down.  I’ll shut the door—­it’s a cold morning.”

He spread the lather over the red face.  “Head back a bit—­that’s right comfortable now, isn’t it?”

“All right—­go ahead.”

Josiah took his razor.  “Now, then,” he said, as he set a big strong hand on the man’s forehead, “if you move, I’ll cut your throat—­keep quiet—­don’t you move.  You told I was a slave—­you ruined my life—­I never did you no harm—­I’d kill you just as easy as that—­” and he drew the blunt cold back of the razor across the hairy neck.

“My God!—­I—­” The man shuddered.

“Keep still—­or you are a dead man.”

“Oh, Lord!” groaned Lamb.

“I would kill you, but I don’t want to be hanged.  God will take care of you—­He is sure.  Some day you will do some wickedness worse than this—­you just look at me.”

There was for Peter fearful fascination in the black face of the man who stood looking down at him, the jaw moving, the white teeth showing, the eyes red, the face twitching with half-suppressed passion.

“Answer me now—­and by God, if you lie, I will kill you.  You set some one on me?  Quick now!”