To his astonishment the door opened instantly and Fletcher
himself appeared upon the threshold. At sight of Christopher he
fell back as if from a blow in the chest, ripping out an oath
with a big downward gesture of his closed fist.

"So you are mixed up in it, are you! Whar's the boy?" From the
dusk of the hall his face shone dead white about the eyes.

"If you want to get anything out of me you'd better curb your
tongue, Bill Fletcher," replied Christopher coolly, feeling an
animal instinct to prolong the torture. "If you think it's any
satisfaction to me to have your young idiot thrown on my hands
you were never more mistaken in your life. I've been up half the
night with him, and the sooner you take him away the better I'll
like it."

"Oh, you leave him to me and I'll settle him," responded
Fletcher, reaching for his hat. "Jest show me whar he is and I'll
git even with him befo' sundown. As for you, young man, I'll have
the sheriff after you yit."

"In the meantime, you'd better have the doctor. The boy's ill, I
tell you. He came to me last evening, run to death and with a
high fever. He slept in the barn, and this morning he is
decidedly worse. If you come, bring Doctor Cairn with you, and I
warn you now you've got to use a lot of caution. Your grandson is
mortally afraid of you, and he threatens to run away if I let you
know where he is. He wants me to sit at the door with a shotgun
and keep you off."