"You do?" He asked the question with lingering, doubtful emphasis.

"I do,-go away."

He picked up the sjambok that he had laid on the table, gave one long stupefied look at the white-robed, trembling figure, put on his hat, and passed into the darkness without a word.

Clarie stood, statuesque, till the door had closed behind him, then threw herself on to the sofa and burst into hysterical sobs.

Mrs de Villiers walked over and stood by her. "That is your Rooinek lover, eh?-a murderer; and you send him away that he may not be caught. But he will be. Hendrika, tell Toli to ride fast to Frickkie Smeer. Quick! I can hear he is going that way." Hendrika left by the kitchen, and her mother followed. As she disappeared, a little figure in a dishevelled night-dress came furtively into the room and climbed on to the sofa, where she nestled beside the weeping woman. It was little Lisbeth.

Old Piet sat at the table watching the child fondling and kissing her sister. Presently he got up, slouched to the sofa, and sat down. Clarie lay with her back to him, her face buried in a cushion. Her father gently pulled one hand

away.

"Don't cry, haartje,” he said soothingly. "Why did you tell him you thought him a murderer? I know you don't. But it looks black against him."

Clarie controlled herself with an effort. "It does look black," she said. "That's why I drove him away."

"But do you think he murdered Smeer?"

"I should have sent him away just the same." "Then you don't think him bad."

She shook her head.

"You are a strange girl, Clarie. Why did you say you believed him guilty?"

"Father, you don't understand Dick. You heard him say he would not go but for me. If I had told him I thought him innocent, he would have stayed to be caught that he might justify my faith in him; but I know he would have no chance. They would convict him easily. It broke my heart to say it, but it was the only way,-I know him so well." And she broke again into sobs, while little Lisbeth lavished wet kisses and old Piet awkwardly stroked her hair, muttering, "Haartje, haartje!"

Clarie had summed the incident accurately when she said she knew Hartley so well. Her strangely unexpected denunciation of the man was the outcome of a woman's instinct and impulse. She had heard her sister's threat to send for the sons of the dead Smeer, and knew well that it portended disaster for Hartley. Days be

Hartley felt sick, and made no reply.

"Yes, where is Wilmot ?-he will tell the truth."

Hendrika had entered the room, and stood by the side of her mother. She was in an elaborate dressing-gown, whose embellishment she had concealed and marred by throwing an old shawl over her head and shoulders. She stood an embodiment of inartistic incongruity, delicate lace and ribbon, ragged and dirty woollen.

"Why did you make Wilmot bury Johannes?" she demanded. "We know, - you dared not look on him. It is always so with murderers. Have you murdered Wilmot? Where is he? Why does he not come to bear out your lies?"

Hartley relit his pipe. The questioning of the girl unnerved and paralysed him. His courage was oozing. He wanted to be brave and conceal nothing, but he hesitated to make the answer that he felt must condemn him irretrievably. Where was Wilmot? He honestly did not know, but dare not confess it, much less could he put his suspicions into words. To impute treachery to his friend while he himself was under grave suspicion would be the act of a coward. "You cannot answer," came the voice of Hendrika. "You know you have murdered him. I can feel it. Father, send a Kafir for Frickkie and Jan Smeer: they are on the farm, and must catch this schelm." Old Piet spoke at last. He had been listening with the

manner of a man who heard an excuse he could not accept. His stolid, stupid face had incredulity and obstinate scepticism stamped upon it. "You had better go away,"

said.

he

His passive, quietloving nature revolted at everything violent. He hated a scene, and would rather allow a malefactor to escape than have the trouble and exertion of arresting him.

"Run away before the Smeers come: they are waiting for you," he repeated.

Hartley started as if stung.

"Run away! By God, no! not for all the police in the Transvaal," he shouted, standing up and facing the group defiantly. "Where's Clarie? You may believe I'm a murderer, but she does not."

"Go away," Piet repeated petulantly

"It's your house, Piet, but I don't go until Clarie tells me to."

At that moment there was a flash of white at the door. Clarie, with a wrapper thrown round her, her long brown hair streaming over her shoulders, her face white as her robe and her dark eyes gleaming feverishly, glided noiselessly into the room. She walked swiftly up to Hartley, and pointing to the door that opened upon the stoep, said in a tone strangely at variance with her usual subdued and gentle speech"Go,-go at once!"

Hartley stood dazed and irresolute.

"But, Clarie, why should I go if I am innocent?"

"Go!" she repeated, and she

Hartley felt sick, and made no reply.

"Yes, where is Wilmot?-he will tell the truth."

Hendrika had entered the room, and stood by the side of her mother. She was in an elaborate dressing-gown, whose embellishment she had concealed and marred by throwing an old shawl over her head and shoulders. She stood an embodiment of inartistic incongruity, delicate lace and ribbon, ragged and dirty woollen.

"Why did you make Wilmot bury Johannes?" she demanded. "We know, you dared not look on him. It is always so with murderers. Have you murdered Wilmot? Where is he? Why does he not come to bear out your lies?"

Hartley relit his pipe. The questioning of the girl unnerved and paralysed him. His courage was oozing. He wanted to be brave and conceal nothing, but he hesitated to make the answer that he felt must condemn him irretrievably. Where was Wilmot? He honestly did not know, but dare not confess it, much less could he put his suspicions into words. To impute treachery to his friend while he himself was under grave suspicion would be the act of a coward. "You cannot answer," came the voice of Hendrika. "You know you have murdered him. I can feel it. Father, send a Kafir for Frickkie and Jan Smeer: they are on the farm, and must catch this schelm." Old Piet spoke at last. He had been listening with the

manner of a man who heard an excuse he could not accept. His stolid, stupid face had incredulity and obstinate scepticism stamped upon it. "You had better go away," he

said.

His passive, quietloving nature revolted at everything violent. He hated a scene, and would rather allow a malefactor to escape than have the trouble and exertion of arresting him.

"Run away before the Smeers come: they are waiting for you," he repeated.

Hartley started as if stung.

"Run away! By God, no! not for all the police in the Transvaal," he shouted, standing up and facing the group defiantly. "Where's Clarie? You may believe I'm a murderer, but she does not."

"Go away," Piet repeated petulantly

"It's your house, Piet, but I don't go until Clarie tells me to."

At that moment there was a flash of white at the door. Clarie, with a wrapper thrown round her, her long brown hair streaming over her shoulders, her face white as her robe and her dark eyes gleaming feverishly, glided noiselessly into the room. She walked swiftly up to Hartley, and pointing to the door that opened upon the stoep, said in a tone strangely at variance with her usual subdued and gentle speech"Go,-go at once!'

Hartley stood dazed and irresolute.

"But, Clarie, why should I go if I am innocent?"

"Go!" she repeated, and she

put her hand on his arm as if to force him.

He looked at her for a space. "I'll go if you believe me a murderer."

"I do,-go."

"You do?" He asked the question with lingering, doubtful emphasis.

"I do,-go away."

He picked up the sjambok that he had laid on the table, gave one long stupefied look at the white-robed, trembling figure, put on his hat, and passed into the darkness without a word.

Clarie stood, statuesque, till the door had closed behind him, then threw herself on to the sofa and burst into hysterical sobs.

Mrs de Villiers walked over and stood by her. "That is your Rooinek lover, eh?-a murderer; and you send him away that he may not be caught. But he will be. Hendrika, tell Toli to ride fast to Frickkie Smeer. Quick! I can hear he is going that way." Hendrika left by the kitchen, and her mother followed. As she disappeared, a little figure in a dishevelled night - dress came furtively into the room and climbed on to the sofa, where she nestled beside the weeping woman. It was little Lisbeth.

Old Piet sat at the table watching the child fondling and kissing her sister. Presently he got up, slouched to the sofa, and sat down. Clarie lay with her back to him, her face buried in a cushion. Her father gently pulled one hand

away.

"Don't cry, haartje," he said soothingly. "Why did you tell him you thought him a murderer? I know you don't. But it looks black against him."

Clarie controlled herself with an effort. "It does look black," she said. "That's why I drove him away."

"But do you think he murdered Smeer?"

"I should have sent him away just the same." "Then you don't think him bad."

She shook her head.

"You are a strange girl, Clarie. Why did you say you believed him guilty?"

"Father, you don't understand Dick. You heard him say he would not go but for me. If I had told him I thought him innocent, he would have stayed to be caught that he might justify my faith in him; but I know he would have no chance. They would convict him easily. It broke my heart to say it, but it was the only way,-I know him so well." And she broke again into sobs, while little Lisbeth lavished wet kisses and old Piet awkwardly stroked her hair, muttering, "Haartje, haartje!"

Clarie had summed the incident accurately when she said she knew Hartley so well. Her strangely unexpected denunciation of the man was the outcome of a woman's instinct and impulse. She had heard her sister's threat to send for the sons of the dead Smeer, and knew well that it portended disaster for Hartley. Days be