But what did they propose doing with her?  The question caused her blood to run cold.  That these people were desperate she had every reason to believe; they were battling for big stakes:  not even murder had hitherto stood in their way?  Why then, should they hesitate to take her life, if they actually deemed it necessary to the final success of their plans?  She remembered what Beaton had said about her room—­the condition in which it had been left.  It was not all clear, yet it was clear enough, that they had taken every precaution to make her sudden disappearance appear natural.  They had removed all her things, and left a note behind in womanly handwriting to explain her hurried departure.  There was a master criminal mind, watchful of every detail, behind this conspiracy.  He was guarding against every possibility of rescue.

The driver began to use his whip and urge the team forward, the wagon pounding along over the rough road at a rate which compelled the girl to hang on closely to keep her seat.  The man beside her bounced about, and swore, but made no effort to touch her, or open conversation.  The uncertainty, the fear engendered by her thought, the drear silence almost caused her to scream.  She conquered this, yet could remain speechless no longer.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked suddenly.

There was no reply, and she stared toward her silent companion, unable to even perceive his outlines.  His silence sent a thrill of anger through her, and she lost control.  Her hand gripped the coarse shirt-sleeve in determination to compel him to speak.

“Answer me or I’ll scream!”

He chuckled grimly, not in the least alarmed.

“Little good that’ll do yer now, young woman,” he said gruffly, and the driver turned his head at the sound, “unless yer voice will carry five miles or so; where are we now, Matt?”

“Comin’ down ter the Big Slough,” answered the other, expectorating over the wheel, and flickering a horse with his whip-lash. “’Twouldn’t do no harm now ter fasten back the canvas, Joe; maybe she’d feel a bit more ter home that away.”

There was a good-natured drawl to the voice which had a tendency to hearten the girl.  The driver seemed human, sympathetic:  perhaps he would respond to questioning.  The other merely grunted, and began to unloosen the cover.  She leaned forward, and addressed the rounded back of the fellow in front.

“Are you Mr. Moore?”

He wheeled partly about, surprised into acknowledgment.

“Well, I ain’t heered the mister part fer some time, but my name’s Matt Moore, though, how the hell did you know it?”

“The other man called you by name—­don’t you remember?  Besides I had heard about you before.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.  Do yer hear that, Joe?  Who told yer ’bout me?”

“Mr. Westcott; he mentioned you as being one of the men who attacked him in the hotel office yesterday.  He said you were one of Lacy’s men.  So when I heard your name mentioned to-night I knew in whose hands I had fallen.  Was the brute who ordered you about Bill Lacy?”