the sound of flying wheels on the drive and the uneven hoofbeats of an uncertain old horse urged to utmost speed.
"It's Anthony Crawford," said Oliver suddenly.
The man came in, the outcast cousin who had turned his hand against them all. His face was white, his gray eyes were burning with excitement, his voice was harsh and choked when he tried to speak.
"The dike—I see you know already. I went down over the hill to look and saw the moonlight on that pool of water. It was at John Massey's place. I came to get help."
Cousin Tom alone answered.
"Why was John Massey gone?" he said.
Oliver stepped forward to Tom Brighton's side and looked curiously at the man who been their enemy. He could see his hands shake as they crushed his battered old hat between them.
"We had quarreled," Anthony Crawford explained, his voice suddenly gone little and husky. "I turned him away three days ago and—and we had some words, so that he wouldn't stay even overnight after that. He watched the dike—and now the water is coming in."
One more question Cousin Tom asked.
"Why did you come to us?" he inquired steadily. "It would have been quicker to go down through the fields to the farms in the valley, to call out Henry Brook and send him with men and shovels and sand-
