It was not his habit to discuss affairs of any moment with Mrs. Montgomery, since in a general way he doubted the clearness of the feminine judgment, and in the present instance he had no intention of taking her into his confidence.  The great problem by which he was confronted he would settle in his own fashion.

“You ain’t in any trouble, Joe?” and Nellie’s eyes widened with the birth of sudden fear.

The handy-man was standing by the door, and she went to his side.

“Me?  No, I guess not; but I got an everlastin’ dose of it for the other fellow!” and he reached for the knob.

“Was it what I said about the police wantin’ you?” his wife asked timidly.

She knew that his dealings with the police had never been of an especially fortunate nature.  He shook off the hand she had placed on his arm.

“You keep your mouth shut till I get back!” he said, and pushing open the door, passed out.

The night had cleared since he crossed the bridge, and from the great blue arch of heaven the new moon gave her radiance to a sleeping world.  But Montgomery was aware only of his purpose as he slouched along the path toward the railroad track.  The horror of North’s fate had fixed his determination, nothing of terror or fear that he had ever known was comparable to the emotion he was experiencing now.  He did not even speculate on the consequences to himself of the act he had decided on.  They said that he had hanged John North—­he got the credit for that—­well, John North wasn’t hanged yet!  He tossed his arms aloft.  “My God, I didn’t mean to do that!” he muttered.

He had gained the railroad tracks and was running toward the bridge, the very seconds seemed of infinite value to him, for suppose he should have difficulty in finding Moxlow?  And if he found the prosecuting attorney, would he believe his story?  A shudder passed through him.  He was quite near the bridge when suddenly he paused and a whispered curse slipped from between his parted lips.  A man was standing at the entrance to the bridge and though it was impossible to distinguish more than the shadowy outline of his figure, Montgomery was certain that it was Marshall Langham.  His first impulse was to turn back and go into town by the wagon road and the wooden bridge, but as he hesitated the figure came toward him, and Langham spoke.

“Is that you, Joe?” he asked.

“Damn him, he knows I won’t stand for hangin’ North!” the handy-man told himself under his breath.  He added aloud as he shuffled forward, “Yes, it’s me, boss!”

“Couldn’t you make it right with Nellie?” asked Langham.

“Oh, it isn’t that—­the old woman’s all right—­but the baby’s sick and I’m out huntin’ a doctor.”

He did not expect Langham to believe him, but on the spur of the moment he could think of nothing better.

“I am sorry to hear that!” said Langham.

An evil wolfish light stole into his eyes and the lines of his weak debauched face hardened.