confess as much even now, but I saw the affair from a new viewpoint. I
was not so sure, so certain, that I understood the entire truth.

Coombs was no plantation overseer, but a mere Texas bully. The very
appearance of the man told that, and those neglected, weed-grown fields
were another proof. What was he here for, then? And Sallie! Lord, I
could despise that Texas rough, but the snaky eyes of the woman made me
shiver, and look about apprehensively. Then there was the dead
man--the _dead man_. There echoed into my brain the woman's whisper in
the parlor below, "I 'm not afraid, but I am beginning to believe we
're doing wrong." There was wrong somewhere surely--cowardly crime,
murder! But were we connected with it? Was it also part of the plot
in which we were employed? I could not understand, yet resolved one
thing clearly--I would find out tomorrow, early, before she had to be
told the ghastly discovery of the night. With the first return of
daylight I would seek out Coombs, tell him what I had seen, and compel
him to confess the truth. Then I should know how to act, how to
approach her, and explain. My nerves steadied as I sat there in the
silence, and my mind drifted to the woman sleeping across the hall.
Then, my cigar smoked out, I also fell asleep in the chair.

The gray of dawn was on the windows when I awoke, my body aching from
its unnatural position. For the instant I imagined some unusual sound
had aroused me, yet all was quiet, the only noise the twittering of
birds from without. I closed my eyes again, but a ceaseless train of
thought kept me wide awake, and, finally, I got upon my feet and looked
out into the dawn, determining to explore our strange surroundings
before any others were astir. With loaded revolver in my pocket, I
slipped into the hall. The faint light revealed its shabbiness, the
grimy rag carpet, and discolored walls. Some spirit of adventure led