string and spread them on the table. He selected the one from which Blackford's blood had been wiped off.
"Randolph examined this knife," he continued, "but not the others; he assumed that they are all alike. Well, they are not. The others are dull, but this one has the edge of a razor."
And he plucked a piece of paper from the table and sheared it in two. Then he put the knife down on the board and looked toward the far end of the wagon.
"And the child's face," he said—"I was not certain of that until I saw Blackford's ironed out under the hand of death, and then I knew. And the letter——"
But the old man was on his feet straining over the table, his features twitching like a taut rope.
"Hush! Hush!" he said.
There came a little gust of wind that whispered in the dry grass and blew the dead leaves against the wagon and about my face. They fluttered like a presence, these dead leaves, and pecked and clawed at the gilded panel like the nails of some feeble hand. I began to be assailed with fear as I sat there alone in the darkness looking in upon this tragedy.
My Uncle Abner sat down, and the old man remained with the palms of his hands pressed against the table. Finally he spoke.
"Monsieur," he said, "shall a man lead another into hell and escape the pit himself? Yes, she is his