WHEN Dan Wiley closed the door John turned to his desk and drew from a pigeon hole the mass of legal papers containing the evidence he had gathered of Butler’s theft of his estate.

The dissolution of the Klan had left him only the process of the law by which to recover it. Yet it was only a question of time when the decision of the Supreme Court would hurl the Judge from the Graham home and arraign him for impeachment.

Now that he was ready to file the suit, his mind was in a tumult of hesitation. The soft invisible hand of a girl was holding his hand. He gazed steadily at the documents and saw nothing that was within. The ink lines slowly resolved themselves into the raven glossy hair of Stella piled in curling confusion above her white forehead, and he was trying in vain to find the depths of her wonderful eyes.

Something in the expression of those eyes held his memory in a perpetual spell—their remarkable size and their dilation when she spoke. They seemed to enfold him in a soft mantle of light.

He suddenly bundled the papers, replaced them, and took up his pen.

“I’ve got to see her—that’s all!” he exclaimed. “Who knows? Perhaps I’m answering the great summons of life. I’ll put it to the test. At least I’ll not throw my chance away for a house, some trees and a few acres of dirt. When Love calls life’s too short for revenge.”

On a sheet of delicate old note paper with a crest of yellow and black at the top, he wrote:

My Dear Miss Butler:

You were gracious enough to ask me to call again. I cannot believe your words were mere conventional phrases. Their accent was too genuine and sincere. So I beg the privilege of calling to-day while your father, my valiant political enemy, is busy down town with the delegates to his convention which meets to-morrow. I anxiously await your answer.

Sincerely,

John Graham.

“Unless I’ve mistaken her character, she’ll see me!” he mused as he sealed the note.

He went at once to Mrs. Wilson’s, found Alfred, and gave him the missive.

“Take that to the Judge’s and give it to Miss Stella.”

Alfred stared.

“Down to de ole place!”

“Yes, of course.”

Alfred sat down and laughed.

“Well, fore de Lawd, doan dat beat ye!”

“Shut up, and hurry back—I’ll wait for you at the office.”

“Yassah, right away, sah!”

“And Alfred, not a word to a living soul of this.”

“No, sah, cose not Marse John—I know how tis ’my sef’—de course er true love ain’t run smooth wid me nuther.”

“Quick, now, don’t you lose a minute.”

John returned to his office to await with impatience the word that would mean the beginning of a new chapter in his life.

Alfred placed the note carefully under his hat and hastened to the Judge’s, laughing and chuckling to himself.

For reasons best known to himself he entered by the carriage way.

At the wide double gate still stood the old lodge-keeper’s cottage, a relic of the slave regime. In the cottage Aunt Julie Ann lived with Uncle Isaac, her latest husband. Alfred had once been honoured with that relationship before the war, but Isaac had whipped him and taken Aunt Julie Ann by force of arms.

Alfred was much the larger man of the two, tall, awkward and slow of movement, while Isaac was small and active as a cat. The agility of his movements had swept Aunt Julie Ann’s imagination by storm. The contrast to her own three hundred pounds had no doubt been the secret charm.

She had loudly professed her love for Alfred until she saw Isaac thrash him, and without a word she surrendered to the new lord and refused to recognise her former husband.

This happened two years before the war and Alfred had watched and waited the day of his revenge to dawn. Many a night he had prowled around her cottage spying and listening at the keyhole for her cry of help. He had heard at last that Isaac was beating her unmercifully and he chuckled with grim satisfaction. Every opportunity he got he hung around the cottage and listened for the long expected cry. As he approached the gates this morning in a peculiarly romantic frame of mind, remembering the mission he was on, he heard Uncle Isaac’s voice in sharp accents within, hectoring it over his former spouse.

He crept to the door and listened breathlessly.

“Dar now, I’se jes’ in time ter sabe my lady love!”

He peeped cautiously through the keyhole and saw Aunt Julie Ann’s huge form busy at the ironing board, while Isaac sat majestically in a rocker delivering to her an eloquent discourse on Sanctification in general and his own sinless perfection in particular. Isaac had changed his name several times after the war, following the example of many Negroes who were afraid the use of their old master’s name might some day serve as the badge of slavery. He had lately become a Northern Methodist exhorter of great fame and went from church to church holding revivals, particularly among the sisters of the church, calling them to the life of stainless purity of those who had not merely “salvation,” as the ordinary Methodist or Baptist understood it, but “sanctification” as only those of the inner circle of the Lord knew it.

Isaac had long ago been “sanctified,” and had declared not only his sinless nature but had boldy proclaimed himself a prophet of the new dispensation and had finally fixed his name as “Isaac the Apostle,” which had been simplified by busy clerks in written form to Isaac A. Postle.

Aunt Julie Ann had heard of his wonderful success in his sanctification meetings with misgivings, as the large majority of his converts were invariably among the sisters. She had finally dared to question the authenticity of his apostolic call. Her scepticism had aroused Isaac to a frenzy of religious enthusiasm. That the wife of his bosom should be the only voice to question his divine mission was proof positive that she had in some mysterious way become possessed of the devil—perhaps seven devils.

He determined to cast them out—by moral suasion if possible—if not, by the main strength of his good right arm. He must set his own house in order lest the very source of his inspiration be poisoned by lack of faith. He was devoting this morning to the task when Alfred arrived.

He had just finished a long and fervid explanation of the mystery of Sanctification.

“Fur de las’ time I axes ye, ’oman, what sez ye ter de word er de Lawd?”

Aunt Julie Ann banged the board with the iron and merely grunted:

“Huh!”

Isaac rose and repeated his question with rising wrath:

“What sez ye ter de word er de Lawd?”

“I ain’ heared de Lawd say nuttin yit!”

“An’ why ain’t ye?”

“Case you keep so much fuss I can’t hear nuttin’, Isaac Graham!”

“Doan you call me dat name, you brazen sinner dat sets in de seat er de scornful! Is ye ready ter repent an’ sin no mo?”

Isaac approached her threateningly and Alfred, watching with bulging eyes, clutched the stick he had picked up.

“Tech me if ye dare—I bus’ yo head open wid dis flat-iron!”

Isaac knew his duty now and determined to perform it without further ceremony. The anointed of the Lord had been threatened by the ungodly. He drew a seasoned hickory withe from a crack where he had hidden it and approached his sceptical spouse.

Aunt Julie Ann began to whimper.

“Put down dat flat-iron!” he sternly commanded.

Alfred peering through the keyhole gasped in amazement as he saw her drop the iron heavily on the floor.

Isaac raised his switch and began to whip her. Around and around she flew screaming, begging, pleading for mercy. But Isaac continued to lay on steadily.

Alfred tried to rise and rush to the rescue but somehow he couldn’t move. To his own surprise the performance fascinated him. He sat peering with satisfaction.

“Dat’s paying her back now fur leavin’ me fer dat low live rascal. Give it to her, old man! Give it to her! She sho’ deserves it!”

At length Isaac paused, and eyed her steadily while he shook his switch with unction.

“I axes ye now, does ye believe in de Sanctification er de Saints?”

“Yes, Lawd, I sees it now!” she cried with fervour.

“An’ thanks me fer showin’ ye de error er yo’ way?”

“Yes, honey! I’m gwine ter seek dat Sanctification myself!”

“Glory! We’se er comin’ on!”

Aunt Julie Ann picked up the flat-iron. Isaac eyed her with suspicion but he was too much elated with his victory to notice anything unusual in her manner.

“Ye b’lieves now in de Sanctification er de Lawd’s messenger Isaac A. Postle?”

With a sudden flash of her eye Aunt Julie Ann hurled the flat-iron straight at the head of the Lord’s messenger saying:

“No, I ain’t sed dat yit!”

But Isaac was quick. He dodged in time. The corner of the flat-iron merely tipped his ear and smashed through the window.

He grabbed his ear with sudden pain and gripped his switch with renewed zeal.

“I see I’se des begun—one debble out, but dey’s six mo’ ter come!”

Again he whipped her around the room, threw her down, held her hair and banged her head against the floor.

“Fur de las’ time I axes ye, is de Lawd’s messenger, Isaac A. Postle, a sanctified one?”

Bang! Bang! Bang! went her head against the planks.

“Yes honey, I sees it now!” she cried with enthusiasm.

“Dat’s de way!”

“Does ye lub me fur showin’ ye de light?”

Bang! Bang! went her head.

“Yes, Lawd, I lub ye.”

“Say it strong.”

Bang! Bang! went her head.

“I lubs ye, my honey, yes I do!” shouted Aunt Julie Ann.

“An’ I’se de only man dat ye ebber lub?”

A moment’s pause, and again bang! bang! went her head.

Alfred couldn’t wait for the answer; he gripped his stick, sprang through the door, knocked the Apostle flat on his back, and jumped on him.

Aunt Julie Ann was more astonished than Isaac at her sudden deliverance.

She scrambled to her feet and gazed for a moment in amazement at Alfred as he pummelled Isaac’s head against the floor with one hand and pounded him with the other.

At every thump of his head Isaac yelled:

“God sabe me! de debble done got me! Help, Lawd, help! Save me Lawd—save me now!” Alfred pounded steadily away.

Aunt Julie Ann, when she caught her breath, grasped Alfred’s arm and yelled:

“What yer doin’ here, nigger!”

He wrenched his arm loose from her grasp and hit Isaac a smashing blow in the mouth as he cried again for help.

“Git often my ole man. I tell ye!” screamed Aunt Julie Ann, gripping Alfred by the throat.

“Name er God, ’oman, what yer doin’ when I comes here ter save ye!” cried Alfred, wrenching himself from her grip and returning to his work on Isaac.

“Git often ’im, I tell ye, fo’ I bus’ yer open!” she panted, towering above the writhing pair. She began to pound Alfred over the head with her fists, but he worked steadily away on Isaac without noticing the interruptions.

Suddenly Aunt Julie Ann threw both arms around his neck, bent his lank figure double across Isaac’s prostrate form, and hurled her three hundred pounds squarely across the two writhing men. There was dead silence for a moment and then Isaac groaned:

“God save me now! we’se bof gone! De house done fall on us!”

“Na! honey, it’s me!” cried Aunt Julie Ann, “an’ I got ’im in de gills!”

She rolled over and pulled Alfred with her—both hands gripped to his throat.

In a moment Isaac was on his feet.

“De Lawd hear my cry!” he exclaimed with unction, pouncing on Alfred and pounding him unmercifully while his faithful spouse held him fast. Alfred found his voice at last, and began to yell murder.

Steve Hoyle, who was pacing the walk in front of the Judge’s anxiously waiting an answer to a pleading letter he had sent to Stella asking for an interview, heard the cries and rushed to Alfred’s rescue.

He pulled Isaac and Aunt Julie Ann off in time to save his hat and portions of his clothes.

As he entered the cottage, he had seen instantly the note in John Graham’s handwriting which Alfred had dropped on the floor. He picked it up hastily and put it in his pocket.

When Alfred got out the door, he did not stand on the order of his going. He struck a bee line for John Graham’s office and ran every step of the way without looking back.

John was pacing the floor, his heart beating out the interminable minutes.

Alfred burst into the room, his nose bleeding, a gash across his forehead, his clothes torn and spotted with the blood from his nose. He was still wild with the fear of death which had clutched his soul as the light of day faded under Aunt Julie Ann’s awful grip on his throat.

He dropped, panting and speechless, on the floor. “For God’s sake, Alfred, what’s happened!” John cried, seizing a glass of water and pressing it to his lips.

“Dey kill me, Marse John!”

“Who did it?—what for?”

“De folks at de Judge’s.”

“Where’s my note?”

“Dunno sah!”

“Didn’t you deliver it?”

“Dunno sah!”

“Did you go to the house?”

“Dunno sah!”

“Where did this happen?”

“At de gate, sah, dey wuz layin’ fer me—De Judge mus’ er tole ’em ter kill me.”

“Who did it?”

“Ole Isaac and Julie Ann jump on me fust, but tow’d de last dey wuz er dozen. Six un ’em wuz er beatin’ me on de head at de same time, three er four wuz er settin’ on top er me, two had me by the throat an’ de res’ un ’em wuz er steady kickin’ me in de stummick. Dey’d er had me sho’ by dis time ef I hadn’t kotch my breaf an’ holler’d.”

“And who helped you?”

“Mr. Steve Hoyle wuz dar ter see Miss Stella an’ he run in an’ pulled ’em off. When I lit out for home I wuz er sight sho nuff. I hear Miss Stella come up ter Mr. Steve an’ bust out laffin’ fit ter kill herself.”

“And you don’t know what became of the note?”

“Yassah! cose sah! dey tuck hit away fum me and tore it up—dat’s what I fit ’em ’bout—yassah!” John’s face was white with rage. He sent Alfred home, sat down at his desk, and drew out the papers he had laid aside. The Judge had won. He had covered him with infamy in the eyes of his beautiful daughter and had dared to perpetrate this infamous outrage. He couldn’t understand Aunt Julie Ann’s part in the row, but the evidence of Alfred’s plight could not be mistaken.

For three hours with stern set face he worked completing the case of Graham vs. Butler. At four o’clock he had entered the suit and an officer served the papers on the astonished Judge.