Patting her on the shoulder, Grouse assured her that she was safe now. He repeated, "Go to my house. You'll be safe with my missus."

Thanking him profusely, kissing his hands, Claudia Tucker hurried then down the dark trace toward the safety of the Grouse home.

By the side of the wagon, two men were holding Chad Tucker by the arms. Two men were opening the scavenger's daughter. A fifth man held a mallet, waiting to drive the pins into the iron clamps. And a sixth man threw a rope over a tree, preparing to lynch Tucker at the climax of his punishments.

The Negro, Cal, waited at the side of the road. He called to Grouse, "Tell me when you're ready, master, sir."

Grouse answered, "You can start dumping pretty soon. First of all, we got to fix up your privy."

Then, turning back to the other white men, Grouse ordered, "Be careful you don't screw it too tight when 300.

you get him in that contraption. We don't want the blood popping from his fingers and toes like they say this machine can do. We just want to play with him till we lynch him."

Tucker's boots had been pulled off, and his ankles were already secured into the clamps at the base of the torture instrument.

Two men next forced Tucker down onto the ground on his back, making him clasp his hands together so that they could lock his wrists.

Grouse interrupted again. "You got to get that top-end clamp around his neck at the same time you hook his hands together. It all comes fit with the same screw."

Tucker's body was weak now with nerves; he pleaded for mercy.

But the white men ignored the cries, continuing to clamp him into the scavenger's daughter, locking him with his knees pressed up to his stomach and his hands held in front ot his chest.

Grouse now stood next to Tucker and studied the way in which the neck band held his head forward. He said, "Cal, come over here now."

The Negro slowly walked toward the group of men surrounding Tucker's doubled-up body.

Grouse said, "Cal, you're going to have to crouch with your feet on each side of his shoulders. And you're going to have to face outward, I reckon. Hold your rump to his body because"-Grouse turned Cal around, saying-"the way this contraption holds his head forward, you've got to be damned near on top of Mm to hit his mouth."

Tucker gave a loud cry.

"Good," Grouse said, looking at Tucker's anguished face. "You just keep on shouting big and wide like that, Tucker, and Cal here can have himself a real good target."

Then Grouse nodded to Cal to step out of his trousers.

Peter sat alone on a porch swing, gently rocking in the dimming light of the evening. He had seen his new 301.

daughters and gone in to say good night to little Imogen. Now he had come to wait here on the porch for Selby to come home from visiting Judge Antrobus.

The air outside the big house was cool; the world seemed at peace. Peter's body still ached from the welts, though, and his bones felt stiff.

Peter thought about telling Selby the events that had occurred here today, the fight that had started soon after Selby had left with Dr. Riesen and had culminated with Monk being buried near the Shed and Lilly being sent away from the Star.

Then Peter realized how lucky he had been that Ta-Ta had seen the fight from her attic window. And as he thought how closely his own life was knitted with the lives of the black people here, he remembered Niggertown.

Peter recalled Selby's last words to him this morning -to think of a name for Niggertown that would have pleased Melissa.

As Peter sat on the porch considering possibilities to name Niggertown-New Start, Hopetown, Homestead -he suddenly saw a small light bobbing at the far end of the driveway. The light was coming toward the big house.

It could not be Selby, Peter thought. Selby had gone to Troy in the buggy. The person who was carrying the light up the driveway was on foot.

Rising from the swing, Peter stood to see who was coming to the Star.

A woman's voice called to him. "Is that you, Mr. Abdee?"

Peter recognized it as a white woman's voice, but still he did not know who she was. He answered, "Yes, ma'am. I'm Peter Abdee. And whom do I have the pleasure of talking to?"

As the light grew closer to the house, Peter could see that she was an elderly woman. Her hair was white and crowning her head in a neat plait. She had a sweet face-but a face that he did not recognize-and she wore a long plum-colored cloak.

Stopping in front of the porch, she set her lamp down 302.

on the ground and announced, "I'm Charlotte Dewitt.

Miss Charlotte Dewitt."

The name did mean something to Peter. The Dewitts had a place to the west of here. But he did not know much about them. They kept to themselves. Moving toward the top of the steps, he offered, "Please, Miss Dewitt, come in. Let me get you some coffee."

Holding up both of her mitted hands hi polite refusal, Charlotte Dewitt answered, "No, please, Mr. Abdee. I've come here on a rather queer mission. It's not social at all. It's ..."

Peter looked quizzically at her. "Yes?"

Standing in front of the porch, looking up at Peter, Charlotte Dewitt folded her hands and said, "First, let me offer my condolences about your late wife, Mr. Abdee."

Nodding, Peter said, "Thank you, Miss Dewitt."

She continued in a firmer voice, "Judge Antrobus was going to come see you, but he didn't feel up to visiting the Star. Not now."

"That's strange," Peter said, remembering the judge's recent visits, now that Rachel was gone. "Perhaps it's good that he stayed at home, though. My father .. . Mr. Selby is visiting the judge now."

Charlotte Dewitt smiled forlornly, shaking her head.

Her gesture confused Peter. He said, "But he most certainly is, M'ss Dewitt."

She began. "Mr. Abdee . . ."

Peter knew now that something had happened.

"Mr. Abdee, your father-in-iaw passed on to his rewards at my house about noontime today."

"At your house? But he went to Troy and then to see Judge Antrobus!"

Charlotte Dewitt said with kind assurance, "Albert Selby often saw Judge Antrobus at my house, Mr. Abdee. Many people do. Gentlemen in the neighborhood. That is one of the customs here. It has been that way for many years. You look like a sensible, levelheaded young man who will understand what I mean when I say that my house serves as a meeting place. An oasis of discreet hospitality for gentlemen in the neighborhood. My sister, Roxanne, and I have kept our 303.

house open to gentlemen friends for twenty-five years now, Mr. Abdee. Some people might call the Dewitt place by another name. Or slander the young ladies who come to help us. But we like to think that we are giving gentlemen such as your father-in-law a second home."

Peter grasped onto a pillar, realizing this other side of Selby. But more important was what else Miss Dewitt had said. "Are you really saying that Father is dead?"

"Yes, Mr. Abdee, I am. He apparently had a heart attack. But to save any complications for you and your family, I've come to you tonight to make arrangements for his body to be brought here. To create the appearance that he passed away on the Star."

"Dead? I can't believe it!"

Charlotte Dewitt momentarily looked forlorn. She confessed, "Neither could I." But, raising her head, she said proudly, "He was always a gentleman, though. A true, kindhearted gentleman! Thinking of others to the end."

But Peter was not listening to Charlotte Dewitt's last words. He was remembering Selby's advice to him this morning, his words in the stables about not making any arrangements for Melissa's funeral, not to make any burial plans until he heard from him. Selby had known then that he was going to die. He wanted to be buried with Melissa.

Peter asked, "How did he die, Miss Dewitt?"

"His heart." Charlotte Dewitt did not elaborate.

Nor did Peter want to hear any more than that.

There was a lull of silence then between them, until, nervously, Peter said, "I do wish you would come in, Miss Dewitt."

Bending to lift her lamp, she said, "No, my sister is waiting for me with our coachman on the road."

Rushing down the front steps as quickly as his sore limbs allowed him, Peter said, "At least, let me walk you to your carriage." He reached to take her lamp.

"That's very kind, Mr. Abdee," she said, demurely wrapping her cloak around her.

"Nothing kind at all! You're the kind person, Miss Dewitt."

"And your late father-in-law," she said, wishing that 304.

she could tell Peter the whole story of Albert Selby's demise this afternoon at the Dewitt place, his carefully laid plans, which she had readily recognized as complete thoughtfulness when George had told her the story. But Charlotte Dewitt would not divulge that now. Perhaps she could tell Peter later. Much later, if he ever had reason to visit the Dewitt place. Already she knew she could trust his discretion.

As they slowly strolled down the driveway, Peter discussed with her when the best hour would be to bring Selby's body back to the house. They decided that the early morning was best. Charlotte Dewitt offered to provide the transportation. Peter warmly accepted this token of friendship.

Nearing the public road, Peter saw two figures sitting side-by-side on the front seat of the open carriage. The two figures quickly moved apart when Peter and Charlotte Dewitt approached them. Peter could see that the coachman was a broad-shouldered black man. But because of the woman's hooded cape, he could not see her face.

Helping Charlotte Dewitt into the carriage, Peter handed her the lamp and said, "I know Father would want you at the funeral, Miss Dewitt."

Settling herself in the front-facing seat of the carriage, she answered, "No, Mr. Abdee. Albert Selby had another world at my house, another life at the Dewitt place."

Looking up at her, Peter said, "You are a remarkable woman, Miss Dewitt."

"Only because I have remarkable friends, Mr. Abdee," she answered. Then, as Charlotte Dewitt tapped on the seat in front of her, the carriage began to move.

Peter stood alone on the public road. Albert Selby was dead.. .. AIbert Selby was dead.

When the clatter of the Dewitt carriage and the pound of the horse hooves disappeared in the dark distance, Peter turned and looked at the gates.

Raising his eyes, he saw the wobbly wooden star hanging from the crossbeams of the gates. He knew that the hour had come to take down Albert Selby's 305.

favorite symbol. "The Star" was finished. Albert Selby had gone. And he, Peter Abdee, had emerged from pain and misery and losses-but with three fine daughters-and was now officially "the master of Dragonard Hill."