The two men had paused by the door.  They now advanced.  One was gaunt and haggard, his face disfigured by a great red scar, the other was a shockheaded individual who moved with a shambling gait.  Both carried rifles and both were dressed in coarse homespun.

“Morning, sir,” said the man with the scar.  “Yancy’s my name, and this gentleman ’lows he’d rather be known now as Mr. Cavendish.”

The judge started to his feet.

“Bob Yancy?” he cried.

“Yes, sir, that’s me.”  The judge passed nimbly around the desk and shook the Scratch Hiller warmly by the hand.  “Where’s my nevvy, sir—­what’s all this about him and Miss Betty?” Yancy’s soft drawl was suddenly eager.

“Please God we’ll recover him soon!” said the judge.

By the window Carrington moved impatiently.  No harm could come to the boy, but Betty—­a shudder went through him.

“They’ve stolen him.”  Yancy spoke with conviction.  “I reckon they’ve started back to No’th Carolina with him—­only that don’t explain what’s come of Miss Betty, does it?” and he dropped rather helplessly into a chair.

“Bob are just getting off a sick bed.  He’s been powerful porely in consequence of having his head laid open and then being throwed into the Elk River, where I fished him out,” explained Cavendish, who still continued to regard the judge with unmixed astonishment, first cocking his shaggy head on one side and then on the other, his bleached eyes narrowed to a slit.  Now and then he favored the austere Mahaffy with a fleeting glance.  He seemed intuitively to understand the comradeship of their degradation.

“Mr. Cavendish fetched me here on his raft.  We tied up to the sho’ this morning.  It was there we met Mr. Carrington—­I’d knowed him slightly back yonder in No’th Carolina,” continued Yancy.  “He said I’d find Hannibal with you.  I was counting a heap on seeing my nevvy.”

Carrington, no longer able to control himself, swung about on his heel.

“What’s been done?” he asked, with fierce repression.  “What’s going to be done?  Don’t you know that every second is precious?”

“I am about to conclude my investigations, sir,” said the judge with dignity.

Carrington stepped to the door.  After all, what was there to expect of these men?  Whatever their interest, it was plainly centered in the boy.  He passed out into the hall.

As the door closed on him the judge turned again to the Scratch Hiller.

“Mr. Yancy, Mr. Mahaffy and I hold your nephew in the tenderest regard, he has been our constant companion ever since you were lost to him.  In this crisis you may rely upon us; we are committed to his recovery, no matter what it involves.”  The judge’s tone was one of unalterable resolution.

“I reckon you-all have been mighty good and kind to him,” said Yancy huskily.

“We have endeavored to be, Mr. Yancy—­indeed I had formed the resolution legally to adopt him should you not come to claim him.  I should have given him my name, and made him my heir.  His education has already begun, under my supervision,” and the judge, remembering the high use to which he had dedicated one of Pegloe’s trade labels, fairly glowed with philanthropic fervor.