Paul  Dabney!  I  was  not  a  little  startled  by
the  opportuneness  of  his  interest.  It  was,  to
say  the  least,  a  trifle  odd  that  he  should  want
me  to  drive  to  Pine  Cone  on  the  very  morning
of  my  appointment.  I  was  half  minded  to  re
fuse  to  drive  with  George,  then  decided  that
this  refusal  would  only  serve  to  point  any  sus
picion  that  Paul  Dabney  might  be  entertain
ing  of  me,  so  I  agreed  meekly  to  the  arrange
ment  and  set  off  in  due  time  seated  in  the
brake-cart  by  George's  substantial  side.  He
was  undoubtedly  a  comfort  to  me,  and  I  kept
him  chattering  all  the  way.  He  had  lost  the  air
of  bravado  he  had  shown  on  our  first  drive
together,  for  "The  Pines"  had  been,  to  all
appearances,  a  place  of  supreme  tranquillity
since  Robbie's  death.  His  talk  was  all  of  the
country-side,  a  string  of  complaints.  The  roads
needed  mending,  the  fences  were  down,  "gov-
e'nment  don't  do  nothin'  fer  this  yere  po'
place."  He  pointed  out  a  tall,  ragged,  dead


The  Red  Lady  149

pine  near  a  turn  in  the  road,  I  remember,  and
groaned,  "Jes  a  tech  to  send  that  tree  plum
oveh  yeah  on  the  top  of  us-all,  missy."  This
complaint  was  one  of  a  hundred  and  stuck  in
my  mind  because  of  later  happenings.
