Durand, now aroused, fastened the horses to the veranda rail.
Chauvenet caught up some candles from the mantel and lighted them.
"Open the trunks in those rooms and be quick; I will join you in a moment;" and as Durand turned into Armitage's room, Chauvenet peered again into the other chambers, called once or twice in a low tone; then turned to Zmai and the prisoner.
"Take off the bag," he commanded.
Chauvenet studied the lines of the erect, silent figure as Zmai loosened the strap, drew off the bag, and stepped back toward the table on which he had laid his revolver for easier access.
"Mr.John Armitage--" Chauvenet, his revolver half raised, had begun an ironical speech, but the words died on his lips.

The man who stood blinking from the sudden burst of light was not John Armitage, but Captain Claiborne.
The perspiration on Claiborne's face had made a paste of the dirt from the potato sack, which gave him a weird appearance.

He grinned broadly, adding a fantastic horror to his visage which caused Zmai to leap back toward the door.

Then Chauvenet cried aloud, a cry of anger, which brought Durand into the hall at a jump.

Claiborne shrugged his shoulders, shook the blood into his numbed arms; then turned his besmeared face toward Durand and laughed.