“Solomon, I bring shocking news.  God knows what the next few hours may reveal!” cried the judge, mopping his brow.  “Miss Malroy has disappeared from Belle Plain, and Hannibal has gone with her!”

“Where have they gone?” asked Mahaffy, and his long jaw dropped.

“Would to God I had an answer ready for that question, Solomon!” answered the judge, with a melancholy shake of the head.  He gazed down on his friend with an air of large tolerance.  “I am going to Belle Plain, but you are too drunk.  Sleep it off, Solomon, and join me when your brain is clear and your legs steady.”

Mahaffy jerked out an oath, and lifting himself off his chair, stood erect.  He snatched up his hat.

“Stuff your pistols into your pockets, and come on, Price!” he said, and stalked toward the door.

He flitted up the street, and the judge puffed and panted in his wake.  They gained the edge of the village without speech.

“There is mystery and rascality here!” said the judge.

“What do you know, Price, and where did you hear this?” Mahaffy shot the question back over his shoulder.

“At Pegloe’s, the Belle Plain overseer had just fetched the news into town.”

Again they were silent, all their energies being absorbed by the physical exertion they were making.  The road danced before their burning eyes, it seemed to be uncoiling itself serpentwise with hideous undulations.  Mr. Mahaffy was conscious that the judge, of whom he caught a blurred vision now at his right side, now at his left, was laboring painfully in the heat and dust, the breath whistling from between his parched lips.

“You’re just ripe for apoplexy, Price!” he snarled, moderating his pace.

“Go on,” said the judge, with stolid resolution.

Two miles out of the village they came to a roadside spring, here they paused for an instant.  Mahaffy scooped up handfuls of the clear water and sucked it down greedily.  The judge dropped on his stomach and buried his face in the tiny pool, gulping up great thirsty swallows.  After a long breathless instant he stood erect, with drops of moisture clinging to his nose and eyebrows.  Mahaffy was a dozen paces down the road, hurrying forward again with relentless vigor.  The judge shuffled after him.  The tracks they left in the dust crossed and re-crossed the road, but presently the slanting lines of their advance straightened, the judge gained and held a fixed place at Mahaffy’s right, a step or so in the rear.  His oppulent fancy began to deal with the situation.

“If anything happens to the child, the man responsible for it would better never been born—­I’ll pursue him with undiminished energy from this moment forth!” he panted.

“What could happen to him, Price?” asked Mahaffy.

“God knows, poor little lad!”

“Will you shut up!” cried Mahaffy savagely.

“Solomon!”