MacPherson stood uncertainly in
the middle of the road. Supper and bed were behind him. But he had not
the heart to turn back to either. Somewhere down in that abyss of night,
there was a clue--or there were many clues--to this strange absence of
Gray Stoddard. Perhaps Gray himself was there; and the Scotchman cursed
his own dilatoriness in waiting till darkness had covered the earth
before setting afoot inquiries.
He found himself hurrying and getting out of breath as he took his way
down the ridge and straight to Stoddard's cottage, only to find that the
master's horse was not in the stable, and the Negro boy who cared for it
had seen nothing of it or its rider since five o'clock that morning.
"I wonder, now, should I give the alarm to Hardwick," MacPherson said to
himself. "The lad may have just ridden on to La Fayette, or some little
nearby town, and be staying the night. Young fellows sometimes have
affairs they'd rather not share with everybody--and then, there's Miss
Lydia. If I go up to Hardwick's with the story, she'll be sure to hear
it from Hardwick's wife."
"Did Mr. Stoddard ever go away like this before without giving you
notice?" he asked with apparent carelessness.
The boy shook his head in vigorous negative.
"Never since I've been working for him," he asserted. "Mr. Stoddard
wasn't starting anywhere but for his early ride--at least he wasn't
intending to.
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