As he rode on, leaving the scattered buildings of the town far behind, mounting the hills and then striking the turnpike—­every rod of which he could have found in the dark—­his thoughts, like road-swallows, skimmed each mile he covered.  Here was where he had stopped with Kate when her stirrup broke; near the branches of that oak close to the ditch marking the triangle of cross-roads he had saved his own and Spitfire’s neck by a clear jump that had been the talk of the neighborhood for days.  On the crest of this hill—­the one he was then ascending—­his father always tightened up the brakes on his four-in-hand, and on the slope beyond invariably braced himself in his seat, swung his whip, and the flattened team swept on and down, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake that blurred the road for minutes thereafter.

When noon came he dismounted at a farmer’s out-building beside the road—­he would not trust the public-houses—­fed and watered his horse, rubbed him down himself, and after an hour’s rest pushed on toward the fork in the road to Moorlands.  Beyond this was a cross-path that led to the outbarns and farm stables—­a path bordered by thick bushes and which skirted a fence in the rear of the manor house itself.  Here he intended to tie his steed and there he would mount him again should his mission fail.

The dull winter sky had already heralded the dusk—­it was near four o’clock in the afternoon—­when he passed some hayricks where a group of negroes were at work.  One or two raised their heads and then, as if reassured, resumed their tasks.  This encouraged him to push on the nearer—­he had evidently been mistaken for one of the many tradespeople seeking his father’s overseer, either to sell tools or buy produce.

Tying the horse close to the fence—­so close that it could not be seen from the house—­he threw the bundle of silks over his shoulder and struck out for the small office in the rear.  Here the business of the estate was transacted, and here were almost always to be found either the overseer or one of his assistants—­both of them white.  These men were often changed, and his chance, therefore, of meeting a stranger was all the more likely.

As he approached the low sill of the door which was level with the ground, and which now stood wide open, he caught the glow of a fire and could make out the figure of a man seated at a desk bending over a mass of papers.  The man pushed back a green shade which had protected his eyes from the glare of a lamp and peered out at him.

It was his father!

The discovery was so unexpected and had come with such suddenness—­it was rarely in these later days that the colonel was to be found here in the afternoon:  he was either riding or receiving visitors—­that Harry’s first thought was to shrink back out of sight, or, if discovered, to make some excuse for his intrusion and retire.  Then his mind changed and he stepped boldly in.  This was what he had come for and this was what he would face.