As he approached the stable, walking in the shadow of the trees on the side of the street, he saw a woman come out of the blacksmith’s shop opposite the stable.  For a moment she paused, her face raised towards the window of his room, and then retreated into the shop.

It was Harriet Floyd.  He stepped behind a tree and watched the door of the shop.  In a moment she reappeared and looked up towards his window again.  He thought she might be waiting to see him, so he moved out into the moonlight and advanced towards her.

“Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed, excitedly.  “I’ve been waiting to see you.  I—­I must tell you something, but it won’t do to stand here; somebody will see us.  Can’t we?—­come in the shop a minute.”

Without speaking, and full of wonder, he followed her into the dark building.  She led him past piles of old iron, wagon-tires, ploughshares, tubs of black water, anvils, and sledges to the forge and bellows at the back of the shop.  She waited for a moment for him to speak, but he only looked at her questioningly, having almost steeled his heart against her.

“I come to warn you,” she began, awkwardly, her eyes raised to his.  “Toot Wambush has prejudiced the Whitecaps against you.  He has convinced them that you reported the moonshiners.  They are coming to-night to take you out.  The others don’t mean to kill you; they say it’s just to whip you, and tar and feather you, and drive you out of the place, but he—­Toot Wambush—­will kill you if he can.  He would not let you get away alive.  He has promised the others not to use violence, but he will; he hates you, and he wants revenge.  He’ll do it and make the others share the responsibility with him—­that’s his plan.”

He put his hand on the bellows-pole; the great leather bag rattled and gasped, and a puff of ashes rose from the forge.

“How do you happen to know this?” he asked, coldly.  She shrank from him, and stared at him in silence.

“How do you know it?” he repeated, his tone growing fierce.

She drew the shawl with which she had covered her head more closely about her shoulders.

“Toot hinted at it himself,” she said, slowly.

“When?”

“About an hour ago.”

“You met him?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a member of his gang?”

“Mr. Westerfelt,” shrinking from him, “do—­do you mean to insult me?”

“Would he have told you if he had thought you would give him away?”

“I reckon not—­why, no.”

“Then he considers you in sympathy with his murderous plans.”

“I don’t know, but I want you to keep out of his way.  You must—­oh, Mr. Westerfelt, you must go!  Don’t stand here; they are coming down the Hawkbill road directly.  You could ride off towards Dartsmouth and easily get away, if you will hurry.”

“I see,” he answered, with a steady stare of condemnation; “you want to keep him from committing another crime—­a more serious one.”