The Squire found that duty was a cold comforter as the wretched hours wore on.

Sanderson had slunk from the house without a word immediately after Anna’s departure.  In the general upheaval no one missed him, and when they did it was too late for them to enjoy the comfort of shifting the blame to his guilty shoulders.

The professor followed Kate with the mute sympathy of a faithful dog; he did not dare attempt to comfort her.  The sight of a woman in tears unnerved him; he would not have dared to intrude on her grief; he could only wait patiently for some circumstance to arise in which he could be of assistance.  In the meantime he did the only practical thing within his power—­he went about from time to time, poked the fires and put on coal.

Marthy would have liked to discuss the iniquity of Lennox Sanderson with any one—­it was a subject on which she could have spent hours—­but no one seemed inclined to divert Marthy conversationally.  In fact, her popularity was not greater that night in the household than that of the Squire.  She spent her time in running from room to room, exclaiming hysterically: 

“Land sakes!  Ain’t it dreadful?”

The tension grew as time wore on without developments of any kind, the waiting with the haunting fear of the worst grew harder to bear than absolute calamity.

Toward five o’clock the Squire announced his intention of going out and continuing the search, and this time no one objected.  In fact, Mrs. Bartlett, Kate and the professor insisted on accompanying him and Marthy decided to go, too, not only that she might be able to say she was on hand in case of interesting developments, but because she was afraid to be left in the house alone.

* * * * * *

Toward morning, David, spent and haggard, wandered into a little maple-sugar shed that belonged to one of the neighbors.  Smoke was coming out of the chimney, and David entered, hoping that Anna might have found here a refuge.

He was quickly undeceived, however, for Lennox Sanderson stood by the hearth warming his hands.  The men glared at each other with the instinctive fierceness of panthers.  Not a word was spoken; each knew that the language of fists could be the only medium of communication between them; and each was anxious to have his say out.

The men faced each other in silence, the flickering glare of the firelight painting grotesque expressions on their set faces.  David’s greater bulk loomed unnaturally large in the uncertain light, while every trained muscle of Sanderson’s athletic body was on the alert.

It was the world old struggle between patrician and proletarian.

Sanderson was an all-round athlete and a boxer of no mean order.  This was not his first battle.  His quick eye showed him from David’s awkward attitude, that his opponent was in no way his equal from a scientific standpoint.  He looked for the easy victory that science, nine times out of ten, can wrest from unskilled brute force.