His thin little body grew rigid and a cold sweat started from him.

He momentarily expected the latch to be lifted, then in the heavy silence he caught the sound of some stealthy movement beyond the lath and plaster partition, and an instant later an audible footfall.

He heard the boards creak and give, as the person who had been standing before his door passed down the hall, down the stairs, and to the floor below.
Limp and shivering, he drew his scanty covering tight about him.

In the silence that succeeded, he once more became aware of the tireless chorus of the frogs, the hooting of the owls, and the melancholy and oft-repeated call of the whippoorwill.

But where was his Uncle Bob?
Why didn't he come to bed?
And whose was that cry for help he had heard?
Memories of idle tales of men foully dealt with in these lonely taverns, of murderous landlords, and mysterious guests who were in league with them, flashed through his mind.
Murrell had followed them for this--and had killed his Uncle Bob, and he would be sent back to Bladen! The law had said that Bladen could have him and that his Uncle Bob must give him up.