Chapter 8 WHAT HAPPENED AT MIDNIGHT ON THE LONELY RIVER ROAD.

For one moment he looked down half stupefied at his work-the girl lay in a little dark heap at his feet just as he had struck her down-the crimson blood pouring from a wound on her temple which his ring had caused.

"I-I've killed her," he muttered, setting his teeth together hard-"she-she provoked me to it-curse her! My God! the girl is actually dying." Then, through his half-dazed brain came the thought that his crime would soon be discovered, and his only safety lay in instant flight.

It was but the work of a moment to hurry from the room, making his way through the inky darkness as best he could to the barroom, where he knew he should find Halloran and the cabby dozing in the big armchairs.

The full realization of his crime had quite sobered him by this time.

The innkeeper had left a dim light in the barroom. By the aid of this he made his way quickly to his friend's side. A few rapid words whispered excitedly in Halloran's ear told him the condition of affairs.

"You are right," exclaimed Halloran, springing to his feet. "We must get out of here without a moment's delay. The cabman must go with us, taking his horses, even though we have to pay him the price of them."

"I-I-will leave everything to you, Halloran," muttered his companion, huskily, "your brain is clearer and a thousand times shrewder than mine."

"Nor must the girl be left here," went on Halloran. "She must not be found dead in this house."

"Why, what in Heaven's name could we do with her?" returned the other, sharply. "I tell you she is dying, any one could see that."

"Put her effectually out of the way, and past all human possibility of any one finding out how she came by her death. I have a desperate plan. I cannot explain it to you now. All I say is, be guided by my directions to-night-leave everything to me," said Halloran, with a grim gaze.

"I put myself in your hands, Halloran," was the husky reply.

The cabby was hurriedly awakened. At first he demurred angrily against the idea of starting off again; but when a roll of bank notes was pressed into his hands as the price of his complying with their demand-a sum that would more than cover the price of the horses if he lost them-he no longer found grounds for complaint, but agreed with alacrity to do their bidding.

Besides, Halloran knew a little secret of the cabby's past-just how he came by the money to buy that outfit-and as it was done in a particularly shady way, the man dared not make an enemy of him.

In less time than it takes to tell it the coach stood at the door again.

It was Halloran-nervy, cool-headed Halloran, whom the other had always dubbed half man, half fiend-who stole up to the room above, found the girl lying in the exact spot his companion had described, and, catching up her cloak, wrapped it about her, bore her noiselessly down the stairs and out to the coach in waiting.

"Is it all over with her yet?" whispered the other in a strained, husky voice, showing intense fear.

"Almost," returned Halloran, briefly, jumping in and closing the door after him.

For some moments they rode along in utter silence. Then, as Halloran made no attempt to break it, his companion leaned over, asking breathlessly: "Where are we going-and-and-what do you propose to do with her?"

"I am just trying to solve that problem in my mind, and it is a knotty one. I must have more time to think it over," replied Halloran, tersely.

Before his companion could reply, the coach came to a sudden standstill, and both of the men within heard their driver's voice in earnest colloquy with some one standing by the roadside.

"It is the girl's father, or friends, who have just discovered her absence and have been scouring the country about to find her," gasped the fraudulent Lester Armstrong, and the hand that grasped his companion's arm shook like an aspen leaf.

"Don't be a coward!" hissed Halloran. "If worst comes to worst, whoever it is can share the girl's fate," and with these words he opened the door of the coach, asking sharply, angrily:

"What is the matter, driver?"

"Nothing, save a poor old fellow who wants me to give him a lift on the box beside me. He has lost his way. He's an old grave digger, who says he lives hereabouts, somewhere. He's half frozen with the cold tramping about. I told him 'Yes, climb up;' it's a little extra work for the horses, but I suppose as long as I don't mind it you'll not object."

"Ha! Satan always helps his own out of difficulties," whispered Halloran to his companion; and, without waiting for a reply, he was out of the coach like a flash, and his hand was on the old grave digger's arm ere he could make the ascent to the box beside the driver.

"Wait a moment, my good friend," said Halloran, "we have a little work which you of all persons are best fitted to perform for us ere we proceed."

Old Adam, the grave digger, looked at the tall gentleman before him in some little perplexity, answering, slowly:

"I hope you will not take it amiss, sir, if I answer that I do not fully comprehend your words."

"Perhaps not; but permit me to make them clear to you, in as plain English as I can command. I want you to dig a grave here and now."

"A grave-here!" echoed Adam, quite believing his old ears were not serving him truly-that he had certainly not heard aright.

"That is what I said," returned Halloran, grimly.

"But, sir!" began old Adam, "this is no graveyard."

"Curse you, who said it was?" cut in the other, sharply.

"It is not to be thought of, sir," murmured the grave digger, trembling in every limb, his brain too bewildered to try to reason out the meaning of this strange request, and quite believing the stranger must be an escaped lunatic.

Coolly and deliberately Halloran drew a revolver from his pocket, and placed it at Adam's throbbing temple, saying, grimly, and harshly:

"You will do as I command or your life will pay the forfeit. I give you one moment of time to decide."

It was a moment so fraught with tragic horror that in all the after years of his life Adam always looked back to it with a shudder of deadly fear.

He was no longer young-the sands of life were running slower than in the long ago-still, life was sweet to him, ah, very sweet. He had a good wife and little bairns at home, and an aged mother, to whom he was very dear, and he was their only support.

Who was this dark-browed stranger? Why did he wish a grave dug by the roadside on this terrible night? Whom did he wish to bury there, and was the body within the coach?

All these thoughts were surging rapidly through his brain, when suddenly Halloran said:

"Your moment for contemplation is up. Will you dig the grave here and now as I command you, or will you prefer that the next passer-by should find you on this spot with a bullet hole through your head?"

Even through the semi-darkness old Adam could see the stranger's eyes gleaming pitilessly upon him as he uttered the words, and he realized that if he refused he might expect no mercy at this man's hands.

"Your answer!" said Halloran, pressing the messenger of death still closer to the throbbing brow of the now thoroughly terrified old grave digger.

"Y-es," stammered old Adam.

"That is well," declared Halloran, removing the weapon. "Begin right here by the roadside. This is as good a spot as any. You need not make it the regulation depth-three feet or such a matter will answer. Begin without delay. I will also add that not only will you save your own neck, but you shall earn a comfortable fee if you work quickly. Mind, every minute counts."

The old grave digger slowly took his spade from his shoulder, and by the light from the carriage lamp began his work on the spot pointed out, while Halloran stood by watching him with keen interest.

Old Adam was used to work in the terrible heat of summer and in the bitter cold of the winter. He set to work with a will, and the frozen ground yielded quickly to the strokes of his trusty spade, and surely the faint moon, glimmering from between the drifting clouds sweeping across the dark face of the black heavens overhead, never looked upon a wilder, more weird scene.

Twice old Adam paused, the perspiration pouring down his face like rain.

He was about to cry out: "I cannot go on with this uncanny work," but each time the cold steel of the revolver was pressed to his throbbing brow, and the harsh voice of the muffled stranger said: "Go on; your work is almost accomplished."