"Them prisoners must be mighty near starved to death by this time, Anderson," warned Mrs. Crow.

"Doggone, that's so!" he cried, and hustled out into the night.

The calaboose was almost totally dark—quite so, had it not been for the single lamp that burned in the office where the body of the old woman was lying. Two or three timid citizens stood afar off, in front of Thompson's feed yard, looking with awe upon the dungeon keep. Anderson's footsteps grew slower and more halting as they approached the entrance to the forbidding square of black. The snow creaked resoundingly under his heels and the chill wind nipped his muffless ears with a spitefulness that annoyed. In fact, he became so incensed, that he set his basket down and slapped his ears vigorously for some minutes before resuming his slow progress. He hated the thought of going in where the dead woman lay.

Suddenly he made up his mind that a confession from the men would be worthless unless he had ear witnesses to substantiate it in court. Without further deliberation, he retraced his steps hurriedly to Lamson's store, where, after half an hour's conversation on the topics of the day, he deputised the entire crowd to accompany him to the jail.

"Where's Bud?" he demanded sharply.

"Home in bed, poor child," said old Mr. Borton.

"Well, doggone his ornery hide, why ain't he here to—" began Anderson, but checked himself in time to prevent the crowd from seeing that he expected Bud to act as leader in the expedition. "I wanted him to jot down notes," he substituted. Editor Squires volunteered to act as secretary, prompter, interpreter, and everything else that his scoffing tongue could utter.

"Well, go ahead, then," said Anderson, pushing him forward. Harry led the party down the dark street with more rapidity than seemed necessary; few in the crowd could keep pace with him. A majority fell hopelessly behind, in fact.

Straight into the office walked Harry, closely followed by Blootch and the marshal. Maude, looking like a monument of sheets, still occupied the centre of the floor. Without a word, the party filed past the gruesome, silent thing and into the jail corridor. It was as dark as Erebus in the barred section of the prison; a cold draft of air flew into the faces of the visitors.

"Come here, you fellers!" called Anderson bravely into the darkness; but there was no response from the prisoners.

For the very good reason that some hours earlier they had calmly removed a window from its moorings and by this time were much too far away to answer questions.



CHAPTER XXIV

The Flight of the Kidnapers

Searching parties were organised and sent out to scour the country, late as it was. Swift riders gave the alarm along every roadway, and the station agent telegraphed the news into every section of the land. At Boggs City, the sheriff, berating Anderson Crow for a fool and Tinkletown for an open-air lunatic asylum, sent his deputies down to assist in the pursuit. The marshal himself undertook to lead each separate and distinct posse. He was so overwhelmed by the magnitude of his misfortune that it is no wonder his brain whirled widely enough to encompass the whole enterprise.

Be it said to the credit of Tinkletown, her citizens made every reasonable effort to recapture the men. The few hundred able-bodied men of the town rallied to the support of their marshal and the law, and there was not one who refused to turn out in the cold night air for a sweeping search of the woods and fields.

Rosalie, who had been awakened early in the evening by Mr. Crow's noisy preparations for the pursuit, came downstairs, and instantly lost all desire to sleep. Bonner was lying on a couch in the "sitting-room," which now served as a temporary bedchamber.

"If you'll just hand me those revolvers, Mr. Crow," said he, indicating the two big automatics he had taken from Davy and Bill, "I'll stand guard over the house as best I can while you're away."

"Stand guard? What fer? Nobody's goin' to steal the house."

"We should not forget that these same rascals may take it into their heads to double on their tracks and try to carry Miss Gray away again. With her in their possession they'll receive their pay; without her their work will have been for nothing. It is a desperate crowd, and they may think the plan at least worth trying."

Rosalie's grateful, beaming glance sent a quiver that was not of pain through Bonner's frame.

"Don't worry about that," said the marshal. "We'll have 'em shot to pieces inside of an hour an' a half."

"Anderson, I want you to be very careful with that horse pistol," said his wife nervously. "It ain't been shot off sence the war, an' like as not it'll kill you from behind."

"Gosh blast it, Eva!" roared Anderson, "don't you suppose I know which end to shoot with?" And away he rushed in great dudgeon.

Edna Crow sat at the front window, keeping watch for hours. She reported to the other members of the household as each scurrying band of searchers passed the place. Bonner commanded Rosalie to keep away from the windows, fearing a shot from the outside. From time to time Roscoe replenished the big blaze in the fireplace. It was cosey in the old-fashioned sitting-room, even though the strain upon its occupants was trying in the extreme.

Great excitement came to them when the figure of a man was seen to drop to the walk near the front gate. At first it was feared that one of the bandits, injured by pursuers, had fallen to die, but the mournful calls for help that soon came from the sidewalk were more or less reassuring. The prostrate figure had a queer habit from time to time of raising itself high enough to peer between the pickets of the fence, and each succeeding shout seemed more vigorous than the others. Finally they became impatient, and then full of wrath. It was evident that the stranger resented the inhospitality of the house.

"Who are you?" called Edna, opening the window ever so slightly. Whereupon the man at the gate sank to the ground and groaned with splendid misery.

"It's me," he replied.

"Who's me?"

"'Rast—'Rast Little. I think I'm dyin'."

There was a hurried consultation indoors, and then Roscoe bravely ventured out to the sidewalk.

"Are you shot, 'Rast?" he asked in trembling tones.

"No; I'm just wounded. Is Rosalie in there?"

"Yep. She's—"

"I guess I'll go in, then. Dern it! It's a long walk from our house over here. I guess I'll stay all night. If I don't get better to-morrow I'll have to stay longer. I ought to be nursed, too."

"Rosalie's playin' nurse fer Mr. Bonner," volunteered Roscoe, still blocking the gate through which 'Rast was trying to wedge himself.

"Mr. who?"

"Bonner."

"Well," said 'Rast after a moment's consideration, "he ought to be moved to a hospital. Lemme lean on you, Roscoe. I can't hardly walk, my arm hurts so."

Mr. Little, with his bandages and his hobble, had joined in the expedition, and was not to be deterred until faintness overcame him and he dropped by the wayside. He was taken in and given a warm chair before the fire. One long look at Bonner and the newcomer lapsed into a stubborn pout. He groaned occasionally and made much ado over his condition, but sourly resented any approach at sympathy. Finally he fell asleep in the chair, his last speech being to the effect that he was going home early in the morning if he had to drag himself every foot of the way. Plainly, 'Rast had forgotten Miss Banks in the sudden revival of affection for Rosalie Gray. The course of true love did not run smoothly in Tinkletown.

The searchers straggled in empty handed. Early morning found most of them asleep at their homes, tucked away by thankful wives, and with the promises of late breakfasts. The next day business was slow in asserting its claim upon public attention. Masculine Tinkletown dozed while femininity chattered to its heart's content. There was much to talk about and more to anticipate. The officials in all counties contiguous had out their dragnets, and word was expected at any time that the fugitives had fallen into their hands.

But not that day, nor the next, nor any day, in fact, did news come of their capture, so Tinkletown was obliged to settle back into a state of tranquility. Some little interest was aroused when the town board ordered the calaboose repaired, and there was a ripple of excitement attached to the funeral of the only kidnaper in captivity. It was necessary to postpone the oyster supper at the Methodist Church, but there was some consolation in the knowledge that it would soon be summer-time and the benighted Africans would not need the money for winter clothes. The reception at the minister's house was a fizzle. He was warned in time, however, and it was his own fault that he received no more than a jug of vinegar, two loaves of bread and a pound of honey as the result of his expectations. It was the first time that a "pound" party had proven a losing enterprise.

Anderson Crow maintained a relentless search for the desperadoes. He refused to accept Wicker Bonner's theory that they were safe in the city of New York. It was his own opinion that they were still in the neighbourhood, waiting for a chance to exhume the body of Davy's mother and make off with it.

"Don't try to tell me, Mr. Bonner, that even a raskil like him hasn't any love fer his mother," he contended. "Davy may not be much of a model, but he had a feelin' fer the woman who bore him, an' don't you fergit it."

"Why, Daddy Crow, he was the most heartless brute in the world!" cried Rosalie. "I've seen him knock her down more than once—and kick her, too."

"A slip of the memory, that's all. He was probably thinkin' of his wife, if he has one."

At a public meeting the town board was condemned for its failure to strengthen the jail at the time Anderson made his demand three years before.

"What's the use in me catchin' thieves, and so forth, if the jail won't hold 'em?" Anderson declared. "I cain't afford to waste time in runnin' desperite characters down if the town board ain't goin' to obstruct 'em from gittin' away as soon as the sun sits. What's the use, I'd like to know? Where's the justice? I don't want it to git noised aroun' that the on'y way we c'n hold a prisoner is to have him commit suicide as soon as he's arrested. Fer two cents I'd resign right now."

Of course no one would hear to that. As a result, nearly five hundred dollars was voted from the corporation funds to strengthen and modernise the "calaboose." It was the sense of the meeting that a "sweat box" should be installed under Mr. Crow's supervision, and that the marshal's salary should be increased fifty dollars a year. After the adoption of this popular resolution Mr. Crow arose and solemnly informed the people that their faith in him was not misplaced. He threw the meeting into a state of great excitement by announcing that the kidnapers would soon be in the toils once more. In response to eager queries he merely stated that he had a valuable clew, which could not be divulged without detriment to the cause. Everybody went home that night with the assurance that the fugitives would soon be taken. Anderson promised the town board that he would not take them until the jail was repaired.

It was almost a fortnight before Wicker Bonner was able to walk about with crutches. The wound in his leg was an ugly one and healed slowly. His uncle, the Congressman, sent up a surgeon from New York, but that worthy approved of "Doc" Smith's methods, and abruptly left the young man to the care of an excellent nurse, Rosalie Gray. Congressman Bonner's servants came over every day or two with books, newspapers, sweetmeats, and fresh supplies from the city, but it was impossible for them to get any satisfaction from the young man in reply to their inquiries as to when he expected to return to the big house across the river. Bonner was beginning to hate the thought of giving up Rosalie's readings, her ministrations, and the no uncertain development of his own opinions as to her personal attractiveness.

"I don't know when I'll be able to walk, Watkins," he said to the caretaker. "I'm afraid my heart is affected."

Bonner's enforced presence at Anderson Crow's home was the source of extreme annoyance to the young men of the town. "Blootch" Peabody created a frightful scandal by getting boiling drunk toward the end of the week, so great was his dejection. As it was his first real spree, he did not recover from the effect for three days. He then took the pledge, and talked about the evils of strong drink with so much feeling at prayer meeting that the women of the town inaugurated a movement to stop the sale of liquor in the town. As Peabody's drug store was the only place where whiskey could be obtained, "Blootch" soon saw the error of his ways and came down from his pedestal to mend them.

Bonner was a friend in need to Anderson Crow. The two were in consultation half of the time, and the young man's opinions were not to be disregarded. He advanced a theory concerning the motives of the leader in the plot to send Rosalie into an exile from which she was not expected to return. It was his belief that the person who abandoned her as a babe was actuated by the desire to possess a fortune which should have been the child's. The conditions attending the final disposition of this fortune doubtless were such as to make it unwise to destroy the girl's life. The plotter, whatever his or her relation to the child may have been, must have felt that a time might come when the existence of the real heiress would be necessary. Either such a fear was the inspiration or the relationship was so dear that the heart of the arch-plotter was full of love for the innocent victim.

"Who is to say, Miss Gray," said Bonner one night as they sat before the fire, "that the woman who left you with Mr. Crow was not your own mother? Suppose that a vast estate was to be yours in trust after the death of some rich relative, say grandparent. It would naturally mean that some one else resented this bequest, and probably with some justice. The property was to become your own when you attained a certain age, let us say. Don't you see that the day would rob the disinherited person of every hope to retain the fortune? Even a mother might be tempted, for ambitious reasons, to go to extreme measures to secure the fortune for herself. Or she might have been influenced by a will stronger than her own—the will of an unscrupulous man. There are many contingencies, all probable, as you choose to analyse them."

"But why should this person wish to banish me from the country altogether? I am no more dangerous here than I would be anywhere in Europe. And then think of the means they would have employed to get me away from Tinkletown. Have I not been lost to the world for years? Why—"

"True; but I am quite convinced, and I think Mr. Crow agrees with me, that the recent move was made necessary by the demands of one whose heart is not interested, but whose hand wields the sceptre of power over the love which tries to shield you. Any other would have cut off your life at the beginning."

"That's my idee," agreed Anderson solemnly.

"I don't want the fortune!" cried Rosalie. "I am happy here! Why can't they let me alone?"

"I tell you, Miss Gray, unless something happens to prevent it, that woman will some day give you back your own—your fortune and your name."

"I can't believe it, Mr. Bonner. It is too much like a dream to me."

"Well, doggone it, Rosalie, dreams don't last forever!" broke in Anderson Crow. "You've got to wake up some time, don't you see?"



CHAPTER XXV

As the Heart Grows Older

Bonner's eagerness to begin probing into the mystery grew as his strength came back to him. He volunteered to interest his uncle in the matter, and through him to begin a systematic effort to unravel the tangled ends of Rosalie's life. Money was not to be spared; time and intelligence were to be devoted to the cause. He knew that Rosalie was in reality a creature of good birth and worthy of the name that any man might seek to bestow upon her—a name given in love by a man to the woman who would share it with him forever.

The days and nights were teaching him the sacredness of a growing attachment. He was not closing his eyes to the truth. It was quite as impossible for big, worldly Wick Bonner to be near her and not fall a victim, as it was for the crude, humble youth of Tinkletown. His heart was just as fragile as theirs when it bared itself to her attack. Her beauty attracted him, her natural refinement of character appealed to him; her pureness, her tenderness, her goodness, wrought havoc with his impressions. Fresh, bright, as clear-headed as the June sunshine, she was a revelation to him—to Bonner, who had known her sex in all its environments. His heart was full of her, day and night; for day and night he was wondering whether she could care for him as he knew he was coming to care for her.

One day he received a telegram. It was from his mother and his sister, who had just reached Boston from Bermuda, and it carried the brief though emphatic information that they were starting to Tinkletown to nurse and care for him. Bonner was thrown into a panic. He realised in the instant that it would be impossible for them to come to Mr. Crow's home, and he knew they could not be deceived as to his real condition. His mother would naturally insist upon his going at once to Bonner Place, across the river, and on to Boston as soon as he was able; his clever sister would see through his motives like a flash of lightning. Young Mr. Bonner loved them, but he was distinctly bored by the prospect of their coming. In some haste and confusion, he sent for "Doc" Smith.

"Doctor, how soon will I be able to navigate?" he asked anxiously.

"Right now."

"You don't say so! I don't feel strong, you know."

"Well, your leg's doing well and all danger is past. Of course, you won't be as spry as usual for some time, and you can't walk without crutches, but I don't see any sense in your loafing around here on that account. You'd be safe to go at any time, Mr. Bonner."

"Look here, doctor, I'm afraid to change doctors. You've handled this case mighty well, and if I went to some other chap, he might undo it all. I've made up my mind to have you look out for me until this wound is completely healed. That's all right, now. I know what I'm talking about. I'll take no chances. How long will it be until it is completely healed?"

"A couple of weeks, I suppose."

"Well, I'll stay right here and have you look at it every day. It's too serious a matter for me to trifle with. By the way, my mother is coming up, and I dare say she'll want me to go to Boston. Our family doctor is an old fossil and I don't like to trust him with this thing. You'll be doing me a favour, doctor, if you keep me here until I'm thoroughly well. I intend to tell my mother that it will not be wise to move me until all danger of blood poisoning is past."

"Blood poisoning? There's no danger now, sir."

"You never can tell," said Bonner sagely.

"But I'd be a perfect fool, Mr. Bonner, if there were still danger of that," complained the doctor. "What sort of a doctor would they consider me?"

"They'd certainly give you credit for being careful, and that's what appeals to a mother, you know," said Bonner still more sagely. "Besides, it's my leg, doctor, and I'll have it treated my way. I think a couple of weeks more under your care will put me straight. Mother has to consider me, that's all. I wish you'd stop in to-morrow and change these bandages, doctor; if you don't mind—"

"Doc" Smith was not slow. He saw more than Bonner thought, so he winked to himself as he crossed over to his office. At the corner he met Anderson Crow.

"Say, Anderson," he said, half chuckling, "that young Bonner has had a relapse."

"Thunderation!"

"He can't be moved for a week or two."

"Will you have to cut it off?"

"The leg?"

"Certainly. That's the only thing that pains him, ain't it?"

"I think not. I'm going to put his heart in a sling," said Smith, laughing heartily at what he thought would be taken as a brilliant piece of jesting. But he erred. Anderson went home in a great flurry and privately cautioned every member of the household, including Rosalie, to treat Bonner with every consideration, as his heart was weak and liable to give him great trouble. Above all, he cautioned them to keep the distressing news from Bonner. It would discourage him mightily. For a full week Anderson watched Bonner with anxious eyes, writhing every time the big fellow exerted himself, groaning when he gave vent to his hearty laugh.

"Have you heard anything?" asked Bonner with faithful regularity when Anderson came home each night. He referred to the chase for the fugitives.

"Nothin' worth while," replied Anderson dismally. "Uncle Jimmy Borton had a letter from Albany to-day, an' his son-in-law said three strange men had been seen in the Albany depot the other day. I had Uncle Jimmy write an' ast him if he had seen anybody answerin' the description, you know. But the three men he spoke of took a train for New York, so I suppose they're lost by this time. It's the most bafflin' case I ever worked on."

"Has it occurred to you that the real leader was in this neighbourhood at the time? In Boggs City, let us say. According to Rosa—Miss Gray's story, the man Sam went out nightly for instructions. Well, he either went to Boggs City or to a meeting place agreed upon between him and his superior. It is possible that he saw this person on the very night of my own adventure. Now, the thing for us to do is to find out if a stranger was seen in these parts on that night. The hotel registers in Boggs City may give us a clew. If you don't mind, Mr. Crow, I'll have this New York detective, who is coming up to-morrow, take a look into this phase of the case. It won't interfere with your plans, will it?" asked Bonner, always considerate of the feelings of the good-hearted, simple-minded old marshal.

"Not at all, an' I'll help him all I can, sir," responded Anderson magnanimously. "Here, Eva, here's a letter fer Rosalie. It's the second she's had from New York in three days."

"It's from Miss Banks. They correspond, Anderson," said Mrs. Crow.

"And say, Eva, I've decided on one thing. We've got to calculate on gittin' along without that thousand dollars after this."

"Why, An—der—son Crow!"

"Yep. We're goin' to find her folks, no matter if we do have to give up the thousand. It's no more'n right. She'll be twenty-one in March, an' I'll have to settle the guardeenship business anyhow. But, doggone it, Mr. Bonner, she says she won't take the money we've saved fer her."

"She has told me as much, Mr. Crow. I think she's partly right. If she takes my advice she will divide it with you. You are entitled to all of it, you know—it was to be your pay—and she will not listen to your plan to give all of it to her. Still, I feel that she should not be penniless at this time. She may never need it—she certainly will not as long as you are alive—but it seems a wise thing for her to be protected against emergencies. But I dare say you can arrange that between yourselves. I have no right to interfere. Was there any mail for me?"

"Yep. I almost fergot to fork it over. Here's one from your mother, I figger. This is from your sister, an' here's one from your—your sweetheart, I reckon. I deduce all this by sizin' up the—" and he went on to tell how he reached his conclusions, all of which were wrong. They were invitations to social affairs in Boston. "But I got somethin' important to tell you, Mr. Bonner. I think a trap is bein' set fer me by the desperadoes we're after. I guess I'm gittin' too hot on their trail. I had an ananymous letter to-day."

"A what?"

"Ananymous letter. Didn't you ever hear of one? This one was writ fer the express purpose of lurin' me into a trap. They want to git me out of the way. But I'll fool 'em. I'll not pay any attention to it."

"Goodness, Anderson, I bet you'll be assassinated yet!" cried his poor wife. "I wish you'd give up chasin' people down."

"May I have a look at the letter, Mr. Crow?" asked Bonner. Anderson stealthily drew the square envelope from his inside pocket and passed it over.

"They've got to git up purty early to ketch me asleep," he said proudly. Bonner drew the enclosure from the envelope. As he read, his eyes twinkled and the corners of his mouth twitched, but his face was politely sober as he handed the missive back to the marshal. "Looks like a trap, don't it?" said Anderson. "You see there ain't no signature. The raskils were afraid to sign a name."

"I wouldn't say anything to Miss Gray about this if I were you, Mr. Crow. It might disturb her, you know," said Bonner.

"That means you, too, Eva," commanded Anderson in turn. "Don't worry the girl. She mustn't know anything about this."

"I don't think it's a trap," remarked Eva as she finished reading the missive. Bonner took this opportunity to laugh heartily. He had held it back as long as possible. What Anderson described as an "ananymous" letter was nothing more than a polite, formal invitation to attend a "house warming" at Colonel Randall's on the opposite side of the river. It read:

"Mr. and Mrs. D.F. Randall request the honour of your presence at a house warming, Friday evening, January 30, 190—, at eight o'clock. Rockden-of-the-Hills."

"It is addressed to me, too, Anderson," said his wife, pointing to the envelope. "It's the new house they finished last fall. Anonymous letter! Fiddlesticks! I bet there's one at the post-office fer each one of the girls."

"Roscoe got some of the mail," murmured the marshal sheepishly. "Where is that infernal boy? He'd oughter be strapped good and hard fer holdin' back letters like this," growled he, eager to run the subject into another channel. After pondering all evening, he screwed up the courage and asked Bonner not to tell any one of his error in regard to the invitation. Roscoe produced invitations for his sister and Rosalie. He furthermore announced that half the people in town had received them.

"There's a telegram comin' up fer you after a while, Mr. Bonner," he said. "Bud's out delivering one to Mr. Grimes, and he's going to stop here on the way back. I was at the station when it come in. It's from your ma, and it says she'll be over from Boggs City early in the morning."

"Thanks, Roscoe," said Bonner with an amused glance at Rosalie; "you've saved me the trouble of reading it."

"They are coming to-morrow," said Rosalie long afterward, as the last of the Crows straggled off to bed. "You will have to go away with them, won't you?"

"I'm an awful nuisance about here, I fancy, and you'll be glad to be rid of me," he said softly, his gaze on the blazing "back-log."

"No more so than you will be to go," she said so coolly that his pride suffered a distinct shock. He stole a shy glance at the face of the girl opposite. It was as calm and serene as a May morning. Her eyes likewise were gazing into the blaze, and her fingers were idly toying with the fringe on the arm of the chair.

"By George!" he thought, a weakness assailing his heart suddenly; "I don't believe she cares a rap!"



CHAPTER XXVI

The Left Ventricle

The next day Mrs. Bonner and Miss Bonner descended upon Tinkletown. They were driven over from Boggs City in an automobile, and their advent caused a new thrill of excitement in town. Half of the women in Tinkletown found excuse to walk past Mr. Crow's home some time during the day, and not a few of them called to pay their respects to Mrs. Crow, whether they owed them or not, much to that estimable lady's discomfiture.

Wicker's mother was a handsome, aristocratic woman with a pedigree reaching back to Babylon or some other historic starting place. Her ancestors were Tories at the time of the American Revolution, and she was proud of it. Her husband's forefathers had shot a few British in those days, it is true, and had successfully chased some of her own ancestors over to Long Island, but that did not matter in these twentieth century days. Mr. Bonner long since had gone to the tomb; and his widow at fifty was quite the queen of all she surveyed, which was not inconsiderable. The Bonners were rich in worldly possessions, rich in social position, rich in traditions. The daughter, just out in society, was a pretty girl, several years younger than Wicker. She was the idol of his heart. This slip of a girl had been to him the brightest, wittiest and prettiest girl in all the world. Now, he was wondering how the other girl, who was not his sister, would compare with her when they stood together before him.

Naturally, Mrs. Crow and her daughters sank into a nervous panic as soon as these fashionable women from Boston set foot inside the humble home. They lost what little self-possession they had managed to acquire and floundered miserably through the preliminaries.

But calm, sweet and composed as the most fastidious would require, Rosalie greeted the visitors without a shadow of confusion or a sign of gaucherie. Bonner felt a thrill of joy and pride as he took note of the look of surprise that crept into his mother's face—a surprise that did not diminish as the girl went through her unconscious test.

"By George!" he cried jubilantly to himself, "she's something to be proud of—she's a queen!"

Later in the day, after the humble though imposing lunch (the paradox was permissible in Tinkletown), Mrs. Bonner found time and opportunity to express her surprise and her approval to him. With the insight of the real aristocrat, she was not blind to the charms of the girl, who blossomed like a rose in this out-of-the-way patch of nature. The tact which impelled Rosalie to withdraw herself and all of the Crows from the house, giving the Bonners an opportunity to be together undisturbed, did not escape the clever woman of the world.

"She is remarkable, Wicker. Tell me about her. Why does she happen to be living in this wretched town and among such people?"

Whereupon Bonner rushed into a detailed and somewhat lengthy history of the mysterious Miss Gray, repeating it as it had come to him from her own frank lips, but with embellishments of his own that would have brought the red to her cheeks, could she have heard them. His mother's interest was not assumed; his sister was fascinated by the recital.

"Who knows," she cried, her dark eyes sparkling, "she may be an heiress to millions!"

"Or a princess of the royal blood!" amended her mother with an enthusiasm that was uncommon. "Blood alone has made this girl what she is. Heaven knows that billions or trillions could not have overcome the influences of a lifetime spent in—in Winkletown—or is that the name? It doesn't matter, Wicker—any name will satisfy. Frankly, I am interested in the girl. It is a crime to permit her to vegetate and die in a place like this."

"But, mother, she loves these people," protested Bonner lifelessly. "They have been kind to her all these years. They have been parents, protectors—"

"And they have been well paid for it, my son. Please do not misunderstand me, I am not planning to take her off their hands. I am not going to reconstruct her sphere in life. Not by any means. I am merely saying that it is a crime for her to be penned up for life in this—this desert. I doubt very much whether her parentage will ever be known, and perhaps it is just as well that it isn't to be. Still, I am interested."

"Mamma, I think it would be very nice to ask her to come to Boston for a week or two, don't you?" suggested Edith Bonner, warmly but doubtfully.

"Bully!" exclaimed Wicker, forgetting in his excitement that he was a cripple. "Have her come on to stop a while with you, Ede. It will be a great treat for her and, by George, I'm inclined to think it maybe somewhat beneficial to us."

"Your enthusiasm is beautiful, Wicker," said his mother, perfectly unruffled. "I have no doubt you think Boston would be benefited, too."

"Now, you know, mother, it's not just like you to be snippish," said he easily. "Besides, after living a while in other parts of the world, I'm beginning to feel that population is not the only thing about Boston that can be enlarged. It's all very nice to pave our streets with intellect so that we can't stray from our own footsteps, but I rather like the idea of losing my way, once in a while, even if I have to look at the same common, old sky up there that the rest of the world looks at, don't you know. I've learned recently that the same sun that shines on Boston also radiates for the rest of the world."

"Yes, it shines in Tinkletown," agreed his mother serenely. "But, my dear—" turning to her daughter—"I think you would better wait a while before extending the invitation. There is no excuse for rushing into the unknown. Let time have a chance."

"By Jove, mother, you talk sometimes like Anderson Crow. He often says things like that," cried Wicker delightedly.

"Dear me! How can you say such a thing, Wicker?"

"Well, you'd like old Anderson. He's a jewel!"

"I dare say—an emerald. No, no—that was not fair or kind, Wicker. I unsay it. Mr. Crow and all of them have been good to you. Forgive me the sarcasm. Mr. Crow is perfectly impossible, but I like him. He has a heart, and that is more than most of us can say. And now let us return to earth once more. When will you be ready to start for Boston? To-morrow?"

"Heavens, no! I'm not to be moved for quite a long time—danger of gangrene or something of the sort. It's astonishing, mother, what capable men these country doctors are. Dr. Smith is something of a marvel. He—he—saved my leg."

"My boy—you don't mean that—" his mother was saying, her voice trembling.

"Yes; that's what I mean. I'm all right now, but, of course, I shall be very careful for a couple of weeks. One can't tell, you know. Blood poisoning and all that sort of thing. But let's not talk of it—it's gruesome."

"Indeed it is. You must be extremely careful, Wicker. Promise me that you will do nothing foolish. Don't use your leg until the doctor—but I have something better. We will send for Dr. J——. He can run up from Boston two or three times—"

"Nothing of the sort, mother! Nonsense! Smith knows more in a minute than J—— does in a month. He's handling the case exactly as I want him to. Let well enough alone, say I. You know J—— always wants to amputate everything that can be cut or sawed off. For heaven's sake, don't let him try it on me. I need my legs."

It is not necessary to say that Mrs. Bonner was completely won over by this argument. She commanded him to stay where he was until it was perfectly safe to be moved across the river, where he could recuperate before venturing into the city of his birth. Moreover, she announced that Edith and she would remain in Boggs City until he was quite out of danger, driving over every day in their chartered automobile. It suddenly struck Bonner that it would be necessary to bribe "Doc" Smith and the entire Crow family, if he was to maintain his position as an invalid.

"Doc" Smith when put to the test lied ably in behalf of his client (he refused to call him his patient), and Mrs. Bonner was convinced. Mr. Crow and Eva vigorously protested that the young man would not be a "mite of trouble," and that he could stay as long as he liked.

"He's a gentleman, Mrs. Bonner," announced the marshal, as if the mother was being made aware of the fact for the first time. "Mrs. Crow an' me have talked it over, an' I know what I'm talkin' about. He's a perfect gentleman."

"Thank you, Mr. Crow. I am happy to hear you say that," said Mrs. Bonner, with fine tact. "You will not mind if he stops here a while longer then?"

"I should say not. If he'll take the job, I'll app'int him deputy marshal."

"I'd like a picture of you with the badge and uniform, Wick," said Edith with good-natured banter.

Just before the two ladies left for Boggs City that evening Bonner managed to say something to Edith.

"Say, Ede, I think it would be uncommonly decent of you to ask Miss Gray down to Boston this spring. You'll like her."

"Wicker, if it were not so awfully common, I'd laugh in my sleeve," said she, surveying him with a calm scrutiny that disconcerted. "I wasn't born yesterday, you know. Mother was, perhaps, but not your dear little sister. Cheer up, brother. You'll get over it, just like all the rest. I'll ask her to come, but—Please don't frown like that. I'll suspect something."

During the many little automobile excursions that the two girls enjoyed during those few days in Tinkletown, Miss Bonner found much to love in Rosalie, much to esteem and a great deal to anticipate. Purposely, she set about to learn by "deduction" just what Rosalie's feelings were for the big brother. She would not have been surprised to discover the telltale signs of a real but secret affection on Rosalie's part, but she was, on the contrary, amazed and not a little chagrined to have the young girl meet every advance with a joyous candour, that definitely set aside any possibility of love for the supposedly irresistible brother. Miss Edith's mind was quite at rest, but with the arrogant pride of a sister, she resented the fact that any one could know this cherished brother and not fall a victim. Perversely, she would have hated Rosalie had she caught her, in a single moment of unguardedness, revealing a feeling more tender than friendly interest for him.

Sophisticated and world-wise, the gay, careless Miss Bonner read her pages quickly—she skimmed them—but she saw a great deal between the lines. If her mother had been equally discerning, that very estimable lady might have found herself immensely relieved along certain lines.

Bonner was having a hard time of it these days. It was worse than misery to stay indoors, and it was utterly out of the question for him to venture out. His leg was healing with disgusting rashness, but his heart was going into an illness that was to scoff at the cures of man. And if his parting with his mother and the rosy-faced young woman savoured of relief, he must he forgiven. A sore breast is no respecter of persons.

They were returning to the Hub by the early morning train from Boggs City, and it was understood that Rosalie was to come to them in June. Let it be said in good truth that both Mrs. Bonner and her daughter were delighted to have her promise. If they felt any uneasiness as to the possibility of unwholesome revelations in connection with her birth, they purposely blindfolded themselves and indulged in the game of consequences.

Mrs. Bonner was waiting in the automobile, having said good-bye to Wicker.

"I'll keep close watch on him, Mrs. Bonner," promised Anderson, "and telegraph you if his condition changes a mite. I ast 'Doc' Smith to-day to tell me the real truth 'bout him, an'—"

"The real truth? What do you mean?" she cried, in fresh alarm.

"Don't worry, ma'am. He's improvin' fine, 'doc' says. He told me he'd be out o' danger when he got back to Boston. His heart's worryin' 'doc' a little. I ast 'im to speak plain an' tell me jest how bad it's affected. He said: 'At present, only the left ventricle—whatever that be—only the left one is punctured, but the right one seems to need a change of air.'"



CHAPTER XXVII

The Grin Derisive

"I like your ma," said Anderson to Wicker, later in the evening. "She's a perfect lady. Doggone, it's a relief to see a rich woman that knows how to be a lady. She ain't a bit stuck up an' yet she's a reg'lar aristocrat. Did I ever tell you about what happened to Judge Courtwright's wife? No? Well, it was a long time ago, right here in Tinkletown. The judge concluded this would be a good place fer a summer home—so him an' her put up a grand residence down there on the river bluff. It was the only summer place on this side of the river. Well, of course Mrs. Courtwright had to turn in an' be the leader of the women in this place. She lorded it over 'em an' she give 'em to understand that she was a queen er somethin' like that an' they was nothin' but peasants. An' the derned fool women 'lowed her to do it, too. Seems as though her great-grandfather was a 'squire over in England, an' she had a right to be swell. Well, she ruled the roost fer two summers an' nobody could get near her without a special dispensation from the Almighty. She wouldn't look at anybody with her eyes; her chin was so high in the air that she had to look through her nose.

"Her husband was as old as Methoosalum—that is, he was as old as Methoosalum was when he was a boy, so to speak—an' she had him skeered of his life. But I fixed her. At the end of the second summer she was ready to git up an' git, duke er no duke. Lemme me give you a tip, Wick. If you want to fetch a queen down to your level, jest let her know you're laughin' at her. Well, sir, the judge's wife used to turn up her nose at me until I got to feelin' too small to be seen. My pride was wallerin' in the dust. Finally, I thought of a scheme to fix her. Every time I saw her, I'd grin at her—not sayin' a word, mind you, but jest lookin' at her as if she struck me as bein' funny. Well, sir, I kept it up good an' strong. First thing I knowed, she was beginnin' to look as though a bee had stung her an' she couldn't find the place. I'd ketch her stealin' sly glances at me an' she allus found me with a grin on my face—a good, healthy grin, too.

"There wasn't anything to laugh at, mind you, but she didn't know that. She got to fixin' her back hair and lookin' worried about her clothes. 'Nen she'd wipe her face to see if the powder was on straight, all the time wonderin' what in thunder I was laughin' at. If she passed in her kerridge she'd peep back to see if I was laughin'; and I allus was. I never failed. All this time I wasn't sayin' a word-jest grinnin' as though she tickled me half to death. Gradually I begin to be scientific about it. I got so that when she caught me laughin', I'd try my best to hide the grin. Course that made it all the worse. She fidgeted an' squirmed an' got red in the face till it looked like she was pickled. Doggone, ef she didn't begin to neglect her business as a great-granddaughter! She didn't have time to lord it over her peasants. She was too blame busy wonderin' what I was laughin' at.



"'Nen she begin to look peaked an' thin. She looked like she was seem' ghosts all the time. That blamed grin of mine pursued her every minute. Course, she couldn't kick about it. That wouldn't do at all. She jest had to bear it without grinnin'. There wasn't anything to say. Finally, she got to stayin' away from the meetin's an' almost quit drivin' through the town. Everybody noticed the change in her. People said she was goin' crazy about her hack hair. She lost thirty pounds worryin' before August, and when September come, the judge had to take her to a rest cure. They never come back to Tinkletown, an' the judge had to sell the place fer half what it cost him. Fer two years she almost went into hysterics when anybody laughed. But it done her good. It changed her idees. She got over her high an' mighty ways, they say, an' I hear she's one of the nicest, sweetest old ladies in Boggs City nowadays. But Blootch Peabody says that to this day she looks flustered when anybody notices her back hair. The Lord knows I wa'n't laughin' at her hair. I don't see why she thought so, do you?"

Bonner laughed long and heartily over the experiment; but Rosalie vigorously expressed her disapproval of the marshal's methods.

"It's the only real mean thing I ever heard of you doing, daddy Crow!" she cried. "It was cruel!"

"Course you'd take her part, bein' a woman," said he serenely. "Mrs. Crow did, too, when I told her about it twenty years ago. Women ain't got much sense of humour, have they, Wick?" He was calling him Wick nowadays; and the young man enjoyed the familiarity.

The days came when Bonner could walk about with his cane, and he was not slow to avail himself of the privilege this afforded. It meant enjoyable strolls with Rosalie, and it meant the elevation of his spirits to such heights that the skies formed no bounds for them. The town was not slow to draw conclusions. Every one said it would be a "match." It was certain that the interesting Boston man had acquired a clear field. Tinkletown's beaux gave up in despair and dropped out of the contest with the hope that complete recovery from his injuries might not only banish Bonner from the village, but also from the thoughts of Rosalie Gray. Most of the young men took their medicine philosophically. They had known from the first that their chances were small. Blootch Peabody and Ed Higgins, because of the personal rivalry between themselves, hoped on and on and grew more bitter between themselves, instead of toward Bonner.



Anderson Crow and Eva were delighted and the Misses Crow, after futile efforts to interest the young man in their own wares, fell in with the old folks and exuberantly whispered to the world that "it would be perfectly glorious." Roscoe was not so charitable. He was soundly disgusted with the thought of losing his friend Bonner in the hated bonds of matrimony. From his juvenile point of view, it was a fate that a good fellow like Bonner did not deserve. Even Rosalie was not good enough for him, so he told Bud Long; but Bud, who had worshipped Rosalie with a hopeless devotion through most of his short life, took strong though sheepish exceptions to the remark. It seemed quite settled in the minds of every one but Bonner and Rosalie themselves. They went along evenly, happily, perhaps dreamily, letting the present and the future take care of themselves as best they could, making mountains of the past—mountains so high and sheer that they could not be surmounted in retreat.

Bonner was helplessly in love—so much so, indeed, that in the face of it, he lost the courage that had carried him through trivial affairs of the past, and left him floundering vaguely in seas that looked old and yet were new. Hourly, he sought for the first sign of love in her eyes, for the first touch of sentiment; but if there was a point of weakness in her defence, it was not revealed to the hungry perception of the would-be conqueror. And so they drifted on through the February chill, that seemed warm to them, through the light hours and the dark ones, quickly and surely to the day which was to call him cured of one ill and yet sorely afflicted by another.

Through it all he was saying to himself that it did not matter what her birth may have been, so long as she lived at this hour in his life, and yet a still, cool voice was whispering procrastination with ding-dong persistency through every avenue of his brain. "Wait!" said the cool voice of prejudice. His heart did not hear, but his brain did. One look of submission from her tender eyes and his brain would have turned deaf to the small, cool voice—but her eyes stood their ground and the voice survived.

The day was fast approaching when it would be necessary for him to leave the home of Mr. Crow. He could no longer encroach upon the hospitality and good nature of the marshal—especially as he had declined the proffered appointment to become deputy town marshal. Together they had discussed every possible side to the abduction mystery and had laid the groundwork for a systematic attempt at a solution. There was nothing more for them to do. True to his promise, Bonner had put the case in the hands of one of the greatest detectives in the land, together with every known point in the girl's history. Tinkletown was not to provide the solution, although it contained the mystery. On that point there could be no doubt; so, Mr. Bonner was reluctantly compelled to admit to himself that he had no plausible excuse for staying on. The great detective from New York had come to town, gathered all of the facts under cover of strictest secrecy, run down every possible shadow of a clew in Boggs City, and had returned to the metropolis, there to begin the search twenty-one years back.

"Four weeks," Bonner was saying to her reflectively, as they came homeward from their last visit to the abandoned mill on Turnip Creek. It was a bright, warm February morning, suggestive of spring and fraught with the fragrance of something far sweeter. "Four weeks of idleness and joy to me—almost a lifetime in the waste of years. Does it seem long to you, Miss Gray—oh, I remember, I am to call you Rosalie."

"It seems that I have known you always instead of for four weeks," she said gently. "They have been happy weeks, haven't they? My—our only fear is that you haven't been comfortable in our poor little home. It's not what you are accustomed—"

"Home is what the home folks make it," he said, striving to quote a vague old saying. He was dimly conscious of a subdued smile on her part and he felt the fool. "At any rate, I was more than comfortable. I was happy—never so happy. All my life shall be built about this single month—my past ends with it, my future begins. You, Rosalie," he went on swiftly, his eyes gleaming with the love that would not be denied, "are the spirit of life as I shall know it from this day forth. It is you who have made Tinkletown a kingdom, one of its homes a palace. Don't turn your face away, Rosalie."

But she turned her face toward him and her dark eyes did not flinch as they met his, out there in the bleak old wood.

"Don't, please don't, Wicker," she said softly, firmly. Her hand touched his arm for an instant. "You will understand, won't you? Please don't!" There was a world of meaning in it.

His heart turned cold as ice, the blood left his face. He understood. She did not love him.

"Yes," he said, his voice dead and hoarse, "I think I understand, Rosalie. I have taken too much for granted, fool that I am. Bah! The egotism of a fool!"

"You must not speak like that," she said, her face contracted by pain and pity. "You are the most wonderful man I've ever known—the best and the truest. But—" and she paused, with a wan, drear smile on her lips.

"I understand," he interrupted. "Don't say it. I want to think that some day you will feel like saying something else, and I want to hope, Rosalie, that it won't always be like this. Let us talk about something else." But neither cared to speak for what seemed an hour. They were in sight of home before the stony silence was broken. "I may come over from Bonner Place to see you?" he asked at last. He was to cross the river the next day for a stay of a week or two at his uncle's place.

"Yes—often, Wicker. I shall want to see you every day. Yes, every day; I'm sure of it," she said wistfully, a hungry look in her eyes that he did not see, for he was staring straight ahead. Had he seen that look or caught the true tone in her voice, the world might not have looked so dark to him. When he did look at her again, her face was calm almost to sereneness.

"And you will come to Boston in June just the same?"

"If your sister and—and your mother still want me to come."



She was thinking of herself, the nameless one, in the house of his people; she was thinking of the doubts, the speculations—even the fears that would form the background of her welcome in that proud house. No longer was Rosalie Gray regarding herself as the happy, careless foster-child of Anderson Crow; she was seeing herself only as the castaway, the unwanted, and the world was growing bitter for her. But Bonner was blind to all this; he could not, should not know.

"You know they want you to come. Why do you say that?" he asked quickly, a strange, dim perspective rising before him for an instant, only to fade away before it could be analysed.

"One always says that," she replied with a smile. "It is the penalty of being invited. Your sister has written the dearest letter to me, and I have answered it. We love one another, she and I."

"Rosalie, I am going to write to you," said he suddenly; "you will answer?"

"Yes," she told him simply. His heart quickened, but faltered, and was lost. "I had a long letter from Elsie Banks to-day," she went on with an indifference that chilled.

"Oh," he said; "she is your friend who was or is to marry Tom Reddon, I believe. I knew him at Harvard. Tell me, are they married?"

"No. It was not to take place until March, but now she writes that her mother is ill and must go to California for several months. Mr. Reddon wants to be married at once, or before they go West, at least; but she says she cannot consent while her mother requires so much of her. I don't know how it will end, but I presume they will be married and all go to California. That seems the simple and just way, doesn't it?"

"Any way seems just, I'd say," he said. "They love one another, so what's the odds? Do you know Reddon well?"

"I have seen him many times," she replied with apparent evasiveness.

"He is a—" but here he stopped as if paralysis had seized him suddenly. The truth shot into his brain like a deadly bolt. Everything was as plain as day to him now. She stooped to pick up a slim, broken reed that crossed her path, and her face was averted. "God!" was the cry that almost escaped his lips. "She loves Reddon, and he is going to marry her best friend!" Cold perspiration started from every pore in his body. He had met the doom of love—the end of hope.

"He has always loved her," said Rosalie so calmly that he was shocked by her courage. "I hope she will not ask him to wait."

Rosalie never understood why Bonner looked at her in amazement and said:

"By Jove, you are a—a marvel, Rosalie!"



CHAPTER XXVIII

The Blind Man's Eyes

Bonner went away without another word of love to her. He saw the futility of hoping, and he was noble enough to respect her plea for silence on the subject that seemed distasteful to her. He went as one conquered and subdued; he went with the iron in his heart for the first time—deeply imbedded and racking.

Bonner came twice from the place across the river. Anderson observed that he looked "peaked," and Rosalie mistook the hungry, wan look in his face for the emaciation natural to confinement indoors. He was whiter than was his wont, and there was a dogged, stubborn look growing about his eyes and mouth that would have been understood by the sophisticated. It was the first indication of the battle his love was to wage in days to come. He saw no sign of weakening in Rosalie. She would not let him look into her brave little heart, and so he turned his back upon the field and fled to Boston, half beaten, but unconsciously collecting his forces for the strife of another day. He did not know it then, nor did she, but his love was not vanquished; it had met its first rebuff, that was all.

Tinkletown was sorry to see him depart, but it thrived on his promise to return. Every one winked slyly behind his back, for, of course, Tinkletown understood it all. He would come back often and then not at all—for the magnet would go away with him in the end. The busybodies, good-natured but garrulous, did not have to rehearse the story to its end; it would have been superfluous. Be it said here, however, that Rosalie was not long in settling many of the speculators straight in their minds. It seemed improbable that it should not be as they had thought and hoped. The news soon reached Blootch Peabody and Ed Higgins, and, both eager to revive a blighted hope, in high spirits, called to see Rosalie on the same night. It is on record that neither of them uttered two dozen words between eight o'clock and ten, so bitterly was the presence of the other resented.

March came, and with it, to the intense amazement of Anderson Crow, the ever-mysterious thousand dollars, a few weeks late. On a certain day the old marshal took Rosalie to Boggs City, and the guardianship proceedings were legally closed. Listlessly she accepted half of the money he had saved, having refused to take all of it. She was now her own mistress, much to her regret if not to his.

"I may go on living with you, Daddy Crow, may I not?" she asked wistfully as they drove home through the March blizzard. "This doesn't mean that I cannot be your own little girl after to-day, does it?"

"Don't talk like that, Rosalie Gray, er I'll put you to bed 'thout a speck o' supper," growled he in his most threatening tones, but the tears were rolling down his cheeks at the time.

"Do you know, daddy, I honestly hope that the big city detective won't find out who I am," she said after a long period of reflection.

"Cause why?"

"Because, if he doesn't, you won't have any excuse for turning me out."

"I'll not only send you to bed, but I'll give you a tarnation good lickin' besides if you talk like—"

"But I'm twenty-one. You have no right," said she so brightly that he cracked his whip over the horse's back and blew his nose twice for full measure of gratitude.

"Well, I ain't heerd anything from that fly detective lately, an' I'm beginnin' to think he ain't sech a long sight better'n I am," said he proudly.

"He isn't half as good!" she cried.

"I mean as a detective," he supplemented apologetically.

"So do I," she agreed earnestly; but it was lost on him.

There was a letter at home for her from Edith Bonner. It brought the news that Wicker was going South to recuperate. His system had "gone off" since the accident, and the March winds were driving him away temporarily. Rosalie's heart ached that night, and there was a still, cold dread in its depths that drove sleep away. He had not written to her, and she had begun to fear that their month had been a trifle to him, after all. Now she was troubled and grieved that she should have entertained the fear. Edith went on to say that her brother had seen the New York detective, who was still hopelessly in the dark, but struggling on in the belief that chance would open the way for him.

Rosalie, strive as she would to prevent it, grew pale and the roundness left her cheek as the weeks went by. Her every thought was with the man who had gone to the Southland. She loved him as she loved life, but she could not confess to him then or thereafter unless Providence made clear the purity of her birth to her and to all the world. When finally there came to her a long, friendly, even dignified letter from the far South, the roses began to struggle back to her cheeks and the warmth to her heart. Her response brought a prompt answer from him, and the roses grew faster than the spring itself. Friendship, sweet and loyal, marked every word that passed between them, but there was a dear world in each epistle—for her, at least, a world of comfort and hope. She was praying, hungering, longing for June to come—sweet June and its tender touch—June with its bitter-sweet and sun clouds. Now she was forgetting the wish which had been expressed to Anderson Crow on the drive home from Boggs City. In its place grew the fierce hope that the once despised detective might clear away the mystery and give her the right to stand among others without shame and despair.

"Hear from Wick purty reg'lar, don't you, Rosalie?" asked Anderson wickedly, one night while Blootch was there. The suitor moved uneasily, and Rosalie shot a reproachful glance at Anderson, a glance full of mischief as well.

"He writes occasionally, daddy."

"I didn't know you corresponded reg'larly," said Blootch.

"I did not say regularly, Blucher."

"He writes sweet things to beat the band, I bet," said Blootch with a disdain he did not feel.

"What a good guesser you are!" she cried tormentingly.

"Well, I guess I'll be goin'," exploded Blootch wrathfully; "it's gittin' late."

"He won't sleep much to-night," said Anderson, with a twinkle in his eye, as the gate slammed viciously behind the caller. "Say, Rosalie, there's somethin' been fidgetin' me fer quite a while. I'll blurt it right out an' have it over with. Air you in love with Wick Bonner?"

She started, and for an instant looked at him with wide open eyes; then they faltered and fell. Her breath came in a frightened, surprised gasp and her cheeks grew warm. When she looked up again, her eyes were soft and pleading, and her lips trembled ever so slightly.

"Yes, Daddy Crow, I love him," she almost whispered.

"An' him? How about him?"

"I can't answer that, daddy. He has not told me."

"Well, he ought to, doggone him!"

"I could not permit him to do so if he tried."

"What! You wouldn't permit? What in tarnation do you mean?"

"You forget, daddy, I have no right to his love. It would be wrong—all wrong. Good-night, daddy," she cried, impulsively kissing him and dashing away before he could check her, but not before he caught the sound of a half sob. For a long time he sat and stared at the fire in the grate. Then he slapped his knee vigorously, squared his shoulders and set his jaw like a vise. Arising, he stalked upstairs and tapped on her door. She opened it an inch or two and peered forth at him—a pathetic figure in white.

"Don't you worry, Rosalie," he gulped. "It will be all right and hunky dory. I've just took a solemn oath down stairs."

"An oath, daddy?"

"Yes, sir; I swore by all that's good and holy I'd find out who your parents are ef it took till doomsday. You shall be set right in the eyes of everybody. Now, if I was you, I'd go right to sleep. There ain't nothin' to worry about. I've got another clew."

She smiled lovingly as he ambled away. Poor old Anderson's confidence in himself was only exceeded by his great love for her.

At last June smiled upon Rosalie and she was off for Boston. Her gowns were from Albany and her happiness from heaven—according to a reverential Tinkletown impression. For two weeks after her departure, Anderson Crow talked himself hoarse into willing ears, always extolling the beauty of his erstwhile ward as she appeared before the family circle in each and every one of those wonderful gowns.

This humble narrative has not to do with the glories and foibles of Boston social life. It has to deal with the adventures of Anderson Crow and Rosalie Gray in so far as they pertain to a place called Tinkletown. The joys and pleasures that Rosalie experienced during that month of June were not unusual in character. The loneliness of Anderson Crow was not a novelty, if one stops to consider how the world revolves for every one else. Suffice to say that the Bonners, mere, fils and fille, exerted themselves to make the month an unforgetable one to the girl—and they succeeded. The usual gaiety, the same old whirl of experiences, came to her that come to any other mortal who is being entertained, feted and admired. She was a success—a pleasure in every way—not only to her hosts but to herself. If there was a cloud hanging over her head through all these days and nights, the world was none the wiser; the silver lining was always visible.

Once while she was driving with the Bonners she saw a man whom she knew, but did not expect to ever look upon again. She could not be mistaken in him. It was Sam Welch, chief of the kidnapers. He was gazing at her from a crowded street corner, but disappeared completely before Bonner could set the police on his trail.

Commencement Day at Cambridge brought back hundreds of the old men—the men famous in every branch of study and athletics. Among them was handsome Tom Reddon. He came to see her at the Bonner home. Elsie Banks was to return in September from Honolulu, and they were to be married in the fall. Wicker Bonner eagerly looked for the confusion of love in her eyes, but none appeared. That night she told him, in reply to an impulsive demand, that she did not care for Reddon, that she never had known the slightest feeling of tenderness for him.

"Have you ever been in love, Rosalie?" he asked ruthlessly.

"Yes," she said after a moment, looking him bravely in the eyes.

"And could you never learn to love any one else?"

"I think not, Wicker," she said ever so softly.

"I beg your pardon," he said humbly, his face white and his lips drawn. "I should not have asked."

And so he remained the blind man, with the light shining full into his eyes.



CHAPTER XXIX

The Mysterious Questioner

July brought Rosalie's visit to an end, and once more Tinkletown basked in her smiles and yet wondered why they were so sad and wistful. She and Bonner were much nearer, far dearer to one another than ever, and yet not one effort had been made to bridge the chasm of silence concerning the thing that lay uppermost in their minds. She only knew that Anderson Crow had not "run down" his clew, nor had the New York sleuth reported for weeks. Undoubtedly, the latter had given up the search, for the last heard of him was when he left for Europe with his wife for a pleasure trip of unknown duration. It looked so dark and hopeless to her, all of it. Had Bonner pressed his demands upon her at the end of the visit in Boston, it is possible—more than possible—that she would have faltered in her resolution. After all, why should she deprive herself of happiness if it was held out to her with the promise that it should never end?

The summer turned steaming hot in the lowlands about Tinkletown, but in the great hills across the river the air was cool, bright, and invigorating. People began to hurry to their country homes from the distant cities. Before the month was old, a score or more of beautiful places were opened and filled with the sons and daughters of the rich. Lazily they drifted and drove and walked through the wonderful hills, famed throughout the world, and lazily they wondered why the rest of the world lived. In the hills now were the Randalls, the Farnsworths, the Brackens, the Brewsters, the Van Wagenens, the Rolfes and a host of others. Tinkletown saw them occasionally as they came jaunting by in their traps and brakes and automobiles—but it is extremely doubtful if they saw Tinkletown in passing.

Anderson Crow swelled and blossomed in the radiance of his own importance. In his old age he was becoming fastidious. Only in the privacy of his own back yard did he go without the black alpaca coat; he was beginning to despise the other days, when he had gone coatless from dawn till dark, on the street or off. His badges were pinned neatly to his lapel and not to his suspenders, as in the days of yore. His dignity was the same, but the old sense of irritation was very much modified. In these new days he was considerate—and patronising. Was he not one of the wealthiest men in town—with his six thousand dollars laid by? Was he not its most honoured citizen, not excepting the mayor and selectmen? Was he not, above all, a close friend of the Bonners?

The Bonners were to spend August in the Congressman's home across the big river. This fact alone was enough to stir the Crow establishment to its most infinitesimal roots. Rosalie was to be one of the guests at the house party, but her foster-sisters were not the kind to be envious. They revelled with her in the preparations for that new season of delight.

With the coming of the Bonners, Anderson once more revived his resolution to unravel the mystery attending Rosalie's birth. For some months this ambition had lain dormant, but now, with the approach of the man she loved, the old marshal's devotion took fire and he swore daily that the mystery should be cleared "whether it wanted to be or not."

He put poor old Alf Reesling through the "sweat box" time and again, and worthless Tom Folly had many an unhappy night, wondering why the marshal was shadowing him so persistently.

"Alf," demanded Anderson during one of the sessions, "where were you on the night of February 18, 1883? Don't hesitate. Speak up. Where were you? Aha, you cain't answer. That looks suspicious."

"You bet I c'n answer," said Alf bravely, blinking his blear eyes. "I was in Tinkletown."

"What were you doin' that night?"

"I was sleepin'."

"At what time? Keerful now, don't lie."

"What time o' night did they leave her on your porch?" demanded Alf in turn.

"It was jest half past 'leven."

"You're right, Anderson. That's jest the time I was asleep."

"C'n you prove it? Got witnesses?"

"Yes, but they don't remember the night."

"Then it may go hard with you. Alf, I still believe you had somethin' to do with that case."

"I didn't, Anderson, so help me."

"Well, doggone it, somebody did," roared the marshal. "If it wasn't you, who was it? Answer that, sir."

"Why, consarn you, Anderson Crow, I didn't have any spare children to leave around on doorsteps. I've allus had trouble to keep from leavin' myself there. Besides, it was a woman that left her, wasn't it? Well, consarn it, I'm not a woman, am I? Look at my whiskers, gee whiz! I—"

"I didn't say you left the baskit, Alf; I only said you'd somethin' to do with it. I remember that there was a strong smell of liquor around the place that night." In an instant Anderson was sniffing the air. "Consarn ye, the same smell as now—yer drunk."

"Tom Folly drinks, too," protested Alf. "He drinks Martini cocktails."

"Don't you?"

"Not any more. The last time I ordered one was in a Dutch eatin' house up to Boggs City. The waiter couldn't speak a word of English, an' that's the reason I got so full. Every time I ordered 'dry Martini' he brought me three. He didn't know how to spell it. No, sir, Anderson; I'm not the woman you want. I was at home asleep that night. I remember jest as well as anything, that I said before goin' to bed that it was a good night to sleep. I remember lookin' at the kitchen clock an' seein' it was jest eighteen minutes after eleven. 'Nen I said—"

"That'll be all for to-day, Alf," interrupted the questioner, his gaze suddenly centering on something down the street. "You've told me that six hundred times in the last twenty years. Come on, I see the boys pitchin' horseshoes up by the blacksmith shop. I'll pitch you a game fer the seegars."

"I cain't pay if I lose," protested Alf.

"I know it," said Anderson; "I don't expect you to."

The first day that Bonner drove over in the automobile, to transplant Rosalie in the place across the river, found Anderson full of a new and startling sensation. He stealthily drew the big sunburnt young man into the stable, far from the house. Somehow, in spite of his smiles, Bonner was looking older and more serious. There was a set, determined expression about his mouth and eyes that struck Anderson as new.

"Say, Wick," began the marshal mysteriously, "I'm up a stump."

"What? Another?"

"No; jest the same one. I almost got track of somethin' to-day—not two hours ago. I met a man out yander near the cross-roads that I'm sure I seen aroun' here about the time Rosalie was left on the porch. An' the funny part of it was, he stopped me an' ast me about her. Doggone, I wish I'd ast him his name."

"You don't mean it!" cried Bonner, all interest. "Asked about her? Was he a stranger?"

"I think he was. Leastwise, he said he hadn't been aroun' here fer more'n twenty year. Y'see, it was this way. I was over to Lem Hudlow's to ask if he had any hogs stole last night—Lem lives nigh the poorhouse, you know. He said he hadn't missed any an' ast me if any hogs had been found. I tole him no, not that I knowed of, but I jest thought I'd ask; I thought mebby he'd had some stole. You never c'n tell, you know, an' it pays to be attendin' to business all the time. Well, I was drivin' back slow when up rode a feller on horseback. He was a fine-lookin' man 'bout fifty year old, I reckon, an' was dressed in all them new-fangled ridin' togs. 'Ain't this Mr. Crow, my old friend, the detective?' said he. 'Yes, sir,' said I. 'I guess you don't remember me,' says he. I told him I did, but I lied. It wouldn't do fer him to think I didn't know him an' me a detective, don't y'see?

"We chatted about the weather an' the crops, him ridin' longside the buckboard. Doggone, his face was familiar, but I couldn't place it. Finally, he leaned over an' said, solemn-like: 'Have you still got the little girl that was left on your porch?' You bet I jumped when he said that. 'Yes,' says I, 'but she ain't a little girl now. She's growed up.' 'Is she purty?' he ast. 'Yes,' says I, 'purty as a speckled pup!' 'I'd like to see her,' he said. 'I hear she was a beautiful baby. I hope she is very, very happy.' 'What's that to you?' says I, sharp-like. 'I am very much interested in her, Mr. Crow,' he answered. 'Poor child, I have had her in mind for a long time,' he went on very solemn. I begin to suspect right away that he had a lot to do with her affairs. Somehow, I couldn't help thinkin' I'd seen him in Tinkletown about the time she was dropped—left, I mean.

"'You have given her a good eddication, I hope,' said he. 'Yes, she's got the best in town,' said I. 'The thousand dollars came all right every year?' 'Every February.' 'I should like to see her sometime, if I may, without her knowin' it, Mr. Crow.' 'An' why that way, sir?' demanded I. 'It would probably annoy her if she thought I was regardin' her as an object of curiosity,' said he. 'Tell her fer me,' he went on' gittin' ready to whip up, 'that she has an unknown friend who would give anything he has to help her.' Goshed, if he didn't put the gad to his horse an' gallop off 'fore I could say another word. I was goin' to ask him a lot of questions, too."

"Can't you remember where and under what circumstances you saw him before?" cried Bonner, very much excited.

"I'm goin' to try to think it up to-night. He was a rich-lookin' feller an' he had a heavy black band aroun' one of his coat sleeves. Wick, I bet he's the man we want. I've made up my mind 'at he's her father!"

Bonner impatiently wormed all the information possible out of the marshal, especially as to the stranger's looks, voice, the direction taken when they parted company and then dismally concluded that an excellent opportunity had been hopelessly lost. Anderson said, in cross-examination, that the stranger had told him he "was leavin' at once fer New York and then going to Europe." His mother had died recently.

"I'll try to head him off at Boggs City," said Bonner; and half an hour later he was off at full speed in the big machine for the county seat, a roundabout way to Bonner Place. The New York train had gone, but no one had seen a man answering the description of Anderson's interviewer.

"I'm sorry, Rosalie," said Bonner some time later. He was taking her for a spin in the automobile. "It was a forlorn hope, and it is also quite probable that Mr. Crow's impressions are wrong. The man may have absolutely no connection with the matter. I'll admit it looks interesting, his manner and his questions, and there is a chance that he knows the true story. In any event, he did not go to New York to-day and he can't get another train until to-morrow. I'll pick up Mr. Crow in the morning and we'll run up here to have a look at him if he appears."

"I think it is a wild goose chase, Wicker," Rosalie said despairingly. "Daddy Crow has done such things before."

"But this seems different. The man's actions were curious. He must have had some reason for being interested in you. I am absolutely wild with eagerness to solve this mystery, Rosalie. It means life to me."

"Oh, if you only could do it," she cried so fervently, that his heart leaped with pity for her.

"I love you, Rosalie. I would give my whole life to make you happy. Listen, dearest—don't turn away from me! Are you afraid of me?" He was almost wailing it into her ear.

"I—I was only thinking of the danger, Wicker. You are not watching the road," she said, flushing a deep red. He laughed gaily for the first time in months.

"It is a wide road and clear," he said jubilantly. "We are alone and we are merely drifting. The machine is alive with happiness. Rosalie—Rosalie, I could shout for joy! You do love me? You will be my wife?"

She was white and silent and faint with the joy of it all and the pain of it all. Joy in the full knowledge that he loved her and had spoken in spite of the cloud that enveloped her, pain in the certainty that she could not accept the sacrifice. For a long time she sat staring straight down the broad road over which they were rolling.

"Wicker, you must not ask me now," she said at last, bravely and earnestly. "It is sweet to know that you love me. It is life to me—yes, life, Wicker. But, don't you see? No, no! You must not expect it. You must not ask it. Don't, don't, dear!" she cried, drawing away as he leaned toward her, passion in his eyes, triumph in his face.

"But we love each other!" he cried. "What matters the rest? I want you—you!"

"Have you considered? Have you thought? I have, a thousand times, a thousand bitter thoughts. I cannot, I will not be your—your wife, Wicker, until—"

In vain he argued, pleaded, commanded. She was firm and she felt she was right if not just. Underneath it all lurked the fear, the dreadful fear that she may have been a child of love, the illegitimate offspring of passion. It was the weight that crushed her almost to lifelessness; it was the bar sinister.

"No, Wicker, I mean it," she said in the end resolutely. "Not until I can give you a name in exchange for your own."

"Your name shall one day be Bonner if I have to wreck the social system of the whole universe to uncover another one for you."

The automobile had been standing, by some extraordinary chance, in the cool shade of a great oak for ten minutes or more, but it was a wise, discreet old oak.



CHAPTER XXX

The Hemisphere Train Robbery

Anderson Crow lived at the extreme south end of Tinkletown's principal thoroughfare. The "calaboose" was situated at the far end of Main Street, at least half a mile separating the home of the law and the home of the lawless. Marshal Crow's innate love for the spectacular alone explains the unneighbourliness of the two establishments. He felt an inward glory in riding or walking the full length of the street, and he certainly had no reason to suspect the populace of disregarding the outward glory he presented.

The original plan of the merchantry comprehended the erection of the jail in close proximity to the home of its chief official, but Mr. Crow put his foot flatly and ponderously upon the scheme. With the dignity which made him noticeable, he said he'd "be doggoned ef he wanted to have people come to his own dooryard to be arrested." By which, it may be inferred, that he expected the evil-doer to choose his own arresting place.

Mr. and Mrs. Crow were becoming thrifty, in view of the prospect that confronted them, to wit: The possible marriage of Rosalie and the cutting off of the yearly payments. As she was to be absent for a full month or more, Anderson conceived the idea of advertising for a lodger and boarder. By turning Roscoe out of his bed, they obtained a spare room that looked down upon the peony beds beyond the side "portico."

Mr. Crow was lazily twisting his meagre chin whiskers one morning soon after Rosalie's departure. He was leaning against the town pump in front of the post-office, the sun glancing impotently off the bright badge on the lapel of his alpaca coat. A stranger came forth from the post-office and approached the marshal.

"Is this Mr. Crow?" he asked, with considerable deference.

"It is, sir."

"They tell me you take lodgers."

"Depends."

"My name is Gregory, Andrew Gregory, and I am here to canvass the neighbourhood in the interest of the Human Life Insurance Company of Penobscot. If you need references, I can procure them from New York or Boston."

The stranger was a tall, lean-faced man of forty or forty-five, well dressed, with a brusque yet pleasant manner of speech. His moustache and beard were black and quite heavy. Mr. Crow eyed him quietly for a moment.

"I don't reckon I'll ask fer references. Our rates are six dollars a week, board an' room. Childern bother you?"

"Not at all. Have you any?"

"Some, more or less. They're mostly grown."

"I will take board and room for two weeks, at least," said Mr. Gregory, who seemed to be a man of action.

For almost a week the insurance agent plied his vocation assiduously but fruitlessly. The farmers and the citizens of Tinkletown were slow to take up insurance. They would talk crops and politics with the obliging Mr. Gregory, but that was all. And yet, his suavity won for him many admirers. There were not a few who promised to give him their insurance if they concluded to "take any out." Only one man in town was willing to be insured, and he was too old to be comforting. Mr. Calligan was reputed to be one hundred and three years of age; and he wanted the twenty-year endowment plan. Gregory popularised himself at the Crow home by paying for his room in advance. Moreover, he was an affable chap with a fund of good stories straight from Broadway. At the post-office and in Lamson's store he was soon established as a mighty favourite. Even the women who came to make purchases in the evening,—a hitherto unknown custom,—lingered outside the circle on the porch, revelling in the second edition of the "Arabian Nights."

"Our friend, the detective here," he said, one night at the close of the first week, "tells me that we are to have a show in town next week. I haven't seen any posters."

"Mark Riley's been goin' to put up them bills sence day 'fore yesterday," said Anderson Crow, with exasperation in his voice, "an he ain't done it yet. The agent fer the troupe left 'em here an' hired Mark, but he's so thunderation slow that he won't paste 'em up 'til after the show's been an' gone. I'll give him a talkin' to to-morrer."

"What-fer show is it?" asked Jim Borum.

"Somethin' like a circus on'y 'tain't one," said Anderson. "They don't pertend to have animals."

"Don't carry a menagerie, I see," remarked Gregory.

"'Pears that way," said Anderson, slowly analysing the word.

"I understand it is a stage performance under a tent," volunteered the postmaster.

"That's what it is," said Harry Squires, the editor, with a superior air. "They play 'As You Like It,' by Shakespeare. It's a swell show. We got out the hand bills over at the office. They'll be distributed in town to-morrow, and a big batch of them will be sent over to the summer places across the river. The advance agent says it is a high-class performance and will appeal particularly to the rich city people up in the mountains. It's a sort of open-air affair, you know." And then Mr. Squires was obliged to explain to his fellow-townsmen all the known details in connection with the approaching performance of "As You Like It" by the Boothby Company, set for Tinkletown on the following Thursday night. Hapgood's Grove had been selected by the agent as the place in which the performance should be given.

"Don't they give an afternoon show?" asked Mrs. Williams.

"Sure not," said Harry curtly. "It isn't a museum."

"Of course not," added Anderson Crow reflectively. "It's a troupe."

The next morning, bright and early, Mark Riley fared forth with paste and brush. Before noon, the board fences, barns and blank walls of Tinkletown flamed with great red and blue letters, twining in and about the portraits of Shakespeare, Manager Boothby, Rosalind, Orlando, and an extra king or two in royal robes. A dozen small boys spread the hand bills from the Banner presses, and Tinkletown was stirred by the excitement of a sensation that had not been experienced since Forepaugh's circus visited the county seat three years before. It went without saying that Manager Boothby would present "As You Like It" with an "unrivalled cast." He had "an all-star production," direct from "the leading theatres of the universe."

When Mark Riley started out again in the afternoon for a second excursion with paste and brush, "slapping up" small posters with a celerity that bespoke extreme interest on his part, the astonished populace feared that he was announcing a postponement of the performance. Instead of that, however, he was heralding the fact that the Hemisphere Trunk Line and Express Company would gladly pay ten thousand dollars reward for the "apprehension and capture" of the men who robbed one of its richest trains a few nights before, seizing as booty over sixty thousand dollars in money, besides killing two messengers in cold blood. The great train robbery occurred in the western part of the State, hundreds of miles from Tinkletown, but nearly all of its citizens had read accounts of the deed in the weekly paper from Boggs City.

"I seen the item about it in Mr. Gregory's New York paper," said Anderson Crow to the crowd at Lamson's.

"Gee whiz, it must 'a' been a peach!" said Isaac Porter, open-mouthed and eager for details. Whereupon Marshal Crow related the story of the crime which stupefied the world on the morning of July 31st. The express had been held up in an isolated spot by a half-dozen masked men. A safe had been shattered and the contents confiscated, the perpetrators vanishing as completely as if aided by Satan himself. The authorities were baffled. A huge reward was offered in the hope that it might induce some discontented underling in the band to expose his comrades.

"Are you goin' after 'em, Anderson?" asked old Mr. Borton, with unfailing faith in the town's chief officer.

"Them fellers is in Asia by this time," vouchsafed Mr. Crow scornfully, forgetting that less than a week had elapsed since the robbery. He flecked a fly from his detective's badge and then struck viciously at the same insect when it straightway attacked his G.A.R. emblem.

"I doubt it," said Mr. Lamson. "Like as not they're right here in this State, mebby in this county. You can't tell about them slick desperadoes. Hello, Harry! Has anything more been heard from the train robbers?" Harry Squires approached the group with something like news in his face.

"I should say so," he said. "The darned cusses robbed the State Express last night at Vanderskoop and got away with thirteen hundred dollars. Say, they're wonders! The engineer says they're only five of them."

"Why, gosh dern it, Vanderskoop's only the fourth station west of Boggs City!" exclaimed Anderson Crow, pricking up his official ear. "How in thunder do you reckon they got up here in such a short time?"

"They probably stopped off on their way back from Asia," drily remarked Mr. Lamson; but it passed unnoticed.

"Have you heard anything more about the show, Harry?" asked Jim Borum. "Is she sure to be here?" What did Tinkletown care about the train robbers when a "show" was headed that way?

"Sure. The press comments are very favourable," said Harry. "They all say that Miss Marmaduke, who plays Rosalind, is great. We've got a cut of her and, say, she's a beauty. I can see myself sitting in the front row next Thursday night, good and proper."

"Say, Anderson, I think it's a dern shame fer Mark Riley to go 'round pastin' them reward bills over the show pictures," growled Isaac Porter. "He ain't got a bit o' sense."

With one accord the crowd turned to inspect two adjacent bill boards. Mark had either malignantly or insanely pasted the reward notices over the nether extremities of Rosalind as she was expected to appear in the Forest of Arden. There was a period of reflection on the part of an outraged constituency.

"I don't see how he's goin' to remove off them reward bills without scraping off her legs at the same time," mused Anderson Crow in perplexity. Two housewives of Tinkletown suddenly deserted the group and entered the store. And so it was that the train robbers were forgotten for the time being.

But Marshal Crow's reputation as a horse-thief taker and general suppressor of crime constantly upbraided him. It seemed to call upon him to take steps toward the capture of the train robbers. All that afternoon he reflected. Tinkletown, seeing his mood, refrained from breaking in upon it. He was allowed to stroke his whiskers in peace and to think to his heart's content. By nightfall his face had become an inscrutable mask, and then it was known that the President of Bramble County's Horse-Thief Detective Association was determined to fathom the great problem. Stealthily he went up to the great attic in his home and inspected his "disguises." In some far-off period of his official career he had purchased the most amazing collection of false beards, wigs and garments that any stranded comedian ever disposed of at a sacrifice. He tried each separate article, seeking for the best individual effect; then he tried them collectively. It would certainly have been impossible to recognise him as Anderson Crow. In truth, no one could safely have identified him as a human being.

"I'm goin' after them raskils," he announced to Andrew Gregory and the whole family, as he came down late to take his place at the head of the supper table.

"Ain't you goin' to let 'em show here, pop?" asked Roscoe in distress.

"Show here? What air you talkin' about?"

"He means the train robbers, Roscoe," explained the lad's mother. The boy breathed again.

"They are a dangerous lot," volunteered Gregory, who had been in Albany for two days. "The papers are full of their deeds. Cutthroats of the worst character."

"I'd let them alone, Anderson," pleaded his wife. "If you corner them, they'll shoot, and it would be jest like you to follow them right into their lair."

"Consarn it, Eva, don't you s'pose that I c'n shoot, too?" snorted Anderson. "What you reckon I've been keepin' them loaded revolvers out in the barn all these years fer? Jest fer ornaments? Not much! They're to shoot with, ef anybody asks you. Thunderation, Mr. Gregory, you ain't no idee how a feller can be handicapped by a timid wife an' a lot o' fool childern. I'm almost afeard to turn 'round fer fear they'll be skeered to death fer my safety."

"You cut yourself with a razor once when ma told you not to try to shave the back of your neck by yourself," said one of the girls. "She wanted you to let Mr. Beck shave it for you, but you wouldn't have it that way."

"Do you suppose I want an undertaker shavin' my neck? I'm not that anxious to be shaved. Beck's the undertaker, Mr. Gregory."

"Well, he runs the barber shop, too," insisted the girl.

During the next three days Tinkletown saw but little of its marshal, fire chief and street commissioner. That triple personage was off on business of great import. Early, each morning, he mysteriously stole away to the woods, either up or down the river, carrying a queer bundle under the seat of his "buckboard." Two revolvers, neither of which had been discharged for ten years, reposed in a box fastened to the dashboard. Anderson solemnly but positively refused to allow any one to accompany him, nor would he permit any one to question him. Farmers coming to town spoke of seeing him in the lanes and in the woods, but he had winked genially when they had asked what he was trailing.

"He's after the train robbers," explained all Tinkletown soberly. Whereupon the farmers and their wives did not begrudge Anderson Crow the chicken dinners he had eaten with them, nor did they blame him for bothering the men in the fields. It was sufficient that he found excuse to sleep in the shade of their trees during his still hunt.

"Got any track of 'em?" asked George Ray one evening, stopping at Anderson's back gate to watch the marshal unhitch his thankful nag. Patience had ceased to be a virtue with George.

"Any track of who?" asked Mr. Crow with a fine show of innocence.

"The robbers."

"I ain't been trackin' robbers, George."

"What in thunder have you been trackin' all over the country every day, then?"

"I'm breakin' this colt," calmly replied the marshal, with a mighty wink at old Betty, whom he had driven to the same buckboard for twenty years. As George departed with an insulted snort, Andrew Gregory came from the barn, where he had been awaiting the return of Mr. Crow."

"I'm next to something big," he announced in a low tone, first looking in all directions to see that no one was listening.

"Gosh! Did you land Mr. Farnsworth?"

"It has nothing to do with insurance," hastily explained the agent. "I've heard something of vast importance to you."

"You don't mean to say the troupe has busted?"

"No—no; it is in connection with—with—" and here Mr. Gregory leaned forward and whispered something in Anderson's ear. Mr. Crow promptly stopped dead still in his tracks, his eyes bulging. Betty, who was being led to the water trough, being blind and having no command to halt, proceeded to bump forcibly against her master's frame.



CHAPTER XXXI

"As You Like It"

"You—don't—say—so! Whoa! dang ye! Cain't you see where you're goin', you old rip?" Betty was jerked to a standstill. "What have you heerd?" asked Anderson, his voice shaking with interest.

"I can't tell you out here," said the other cautiously. "Put up the nag and then meet me in the pasture out there. We can sit down and talk and not be overheard."

"I won't be a minute. Here, you Roscoe! Feed Betty and water her first. Step lively, now. Tell your ma we'll be in to supper when we git good an' ready."

Anderson and Andrew Gregory strode through the pasture gate and far out into the green meadow. Once entirely out of hearing, Gregory stopped and both sat down upon a little hillock. The agent was evidently suppressing considerable excitement.

"Those train robbers are in this neighbourhood," he said, breaking a long silence. Anderson looked behind involuntarily. "I don't mean that they are in this pasture, Mr. Crow. You've been a good friend to me, and I'm inclined to share the secret with you. If we go together, we may divide the ten-thousand-dollar reward, because I'm quite sure we can land those chaps."

"What's your plan?" asked Anderson, turning a little pale at the thought. Before going any further into the matter, Gregory asked Anderson if he would sign a paper agreeing to divide the reward equally with him. This point was easily settled, and then the insurance man unfolded his secret.

"I have a straight tip from a friend in New York and he wouldn't steer me wrong. The truth about him is this: He used to work for our company, but took some money that didn't belong to him. It got him a sentence in the pen. He's just out, and he knows a whole lot about these robbers. Some of them were in Sing Sing with him. The leader wanted him to join the gang and he half-way consented. His duty is to keep the gang posted on what the officers in New York are doing. See?"

"Of course," breathed Anderson.

"Well, my friend wants to reform. All he asks is a slice of the reward. If we capture the gang, we can afford to give him a thousand or so, can't we?"

"Of course," was the dignified response.

"Here's his letter to me. I'll read it to you." In the gathering dusk Gregory read the letter to the marshal of Tinkletown. "Now, you see," he said, at the close of the astounding epistle, "this means that if we observe strict secrecy, we may have the game in our hands. No one must hear a word of this. They may have spies right here in Tinkletown. We can succeed only by keeping our mouths sealed."

"Tighter'n beeswax," promised Anderson Crow.

Briefly, the letter to Andrew Gregory was an exposure of the plans of the great train-robber gang, together with their whereabouts on a certain day to come. They were to swoop down on Tinkletown on the night of the open-air performance of "As You Like It," and their most desperate coup was to be the result. The scheme was to hold up and rob the entire audience while the performance was going on. Anderson Crow was in a cold perspiration. The performance was but three days off, and he felt that he required three months for preparation.

"How in thunder are we goin' to capture that awful gang, jest you an' me?" he asked, voicing his doubts and fears.

"We'll have to engage help, that's all."

"We'll need a regiment."

"Don't you think it. Buck up, old fellow, don't be afraid."

"Afeerd? Me? I don't know what it is to be skeered. Didn't you ever hear about how I landed them fellers that kidnaped my daughter Rosalie? Well, you jest ast some one 'at knows about it. Umph! I guess that was a recommend fer bravery. But these fellers will be ready fer us, won't they?"

"We can trick them easily. I've been thinking of a plan all afternoon. We don't know just where they are now, so we can't rake them in to-night. We'll have to wait until they come to us. My plan is to have a half-dozen competent private detectives up from New York. We can scatter them through the audience next Thursday night, and when the right time comes we can land on every one of those fellows like hawks on spring chickens. I know the chief of a big private agency in New York, and I think the best plan is to have him send up some good men. It won't cost much, and I'd rather have those fearless practical men here than all the rubes you could deputise. One of 'em is worth ten of your fellow-citizens, Mr. Crow, begging your pardon for the remark. You and I can keep the secret and we can do the right thing, but we would be asses to take more Tinkletown asses into our confidence. If you'll agree, I'll write to Mr. Pinkerton this evening. He can have his men here, disguised and ready for work, by Thursday afternoon. If you don't mind, I'd like to have you take charge of the affair, because you know just how to handle thieves, and I don't. What say you?"