Anderson was ready and eager to agree to anything, but he hesitated a long time before concluding to take supreme charge of the undertaking. Mr. Gregory at once implored him to take command. It meant the success of the venture; anything else meant failure.

"But how'n thunder am I to know the robbers when I see 'em?" demanded the marshal, nervously pulling bluegrass up by the roots.

"You'll know 'em all right," said Andrew Gregory. Thursday came and with it the "troupe." Anderson Crow had not slept for three nights, he was so full of thrills and responsibility. Bright and early that morning he was on the lookout for suspicious characters. Gregory was to meet the detectives from New York at half-past seven in the evening. By previous arrangement, these strangers were to congregate casually at Tinkletown Inn, perfectly diguised as gentlemen, ready for instructions. The two arch-plotters had carefully devised a plan of action. Gregory chuckled secretly when he thought of the sensation Tinkletown was to experience—and he thought of it often, too.

The leading members of Boothby's All Star Company "put up" at the Inn, which was so humble that it staggered beneath this unaccustomed weight of dignity. The beautiful Miss Marmaduke (in reality, Miss Cora Miller) was there, and so were Miss Trevanian, Miss Gladys Fitzmaurice, Richmond Barrett (privately Jackie Blake), Thomas J. Booth, Francisco Irving, Ben Jefferson and others. The Inn was glorified. All Tinkletown looked upon the despised old "eating house" with a reverence that was not reluctant.

The manager, a busy and preoccupied person, who looked to be the lowliest hireling in the party, came to the Inn at noon and spread the news that the reserved seats were sold out and there was promise of a fine crowd. Whereupon there was rejoicing among the All Star Cast, for the last legs of the enterprise were to be materially strengthened.

"We won't have to walk back home," announced Mr. Jackie Blake, that good-looking young chap who played Orlando.

"Glorious Shakespeare, thou art come to life again," said Ben Jefferson, a barn-stormer for fifty years. "I was beginning to think you were a dead one."

"And no one will seize our trunks for board," added Miss Marmaduke cheerfully. She was a very pretty young woman and desperately in love with Mr. Orlando.

"If any one seized Orlando's trunks, I couldn't appear in public to-night," said Mr. Blake. "Orlando possesses but one pair of trunks."

"You might wear a mackintosh," suggested Mr. Booth.

"Or borrow trunks of the trees," added Mr. Irving.

"They're off," growled Mr. Jefferson, who hated the puns he did not make.

"Let's dazzle the town, Cora," said Jackie Blake; and before Tinkletown could take its second gasp for breath, the leading man and woman were slowly promenading the chief and only thoroughfare.

"By ginger! she's a purty one, ain't she?" murmured Ed Higgins, sole clerk at Lamson's. He stood in the doorway until she was out of sight and remained there for nearly an hour awaiting her return. The men of Tinkletown took but one look at the pretty young woman, but that one look was continuous and unbroken.

"If this jay town can turn up enough money to-night to keep us from stranding, I'll take off my hat to it for ever more," said Jackie Blake.

"Boothby says the house is sold out," said

Miss Marmaduke, a shade of anxiety in her dark eyes. "Oh, how I wish we were at home again."

"I'd rather starve in New York than feast in the high hills," said he wistfully. The idols to whom Tinkletown was paying homage were but human, after all. For two months the Boothby Company had been buffeted from pillar to post, struggling hard to keep its head above water, always expecting the crash. The "all-stars" were no more than striving young Thespians, who were kept playing throughout the heated term with this uncertain enterprise, solely because necessity was in command of their destinies. It was not for them to enjoy a summer in ease and indolence.

"Never mind, dear," said she, turning her green parasol so that it obstructed the intense but complimentary gaze of no less than a dozen men; "our luck will change. We won't be barn-storming for ever."

"We've one thing to be thankful for, little woman," said Jackie, his face brightening. "We go out again this fall in the same company. That's luck, isn't it? We'll be married as soon as we get back to New York and we won't have to be separated for a whole season, at least."

"Isn't it dear to think of, Jackie sweetheart? A whole season and then another, and then all of them after that? Oh, dear, won't it be sweet?" It was love's young dream for both of them.

"Hello, what's this?" exclaimed Orlando the Thousandth, pausing before a placard which covered the lower limbs of his pictorial partner. "Ten Thousand Dollars reward! Great Scott, Cora, wouldn't I like to catch those fellows? Great, eh? But it's a desperate gang! The worst ever!"

Just then both became conscious of the fact that some one was scrutinising them intently from behind. They turned and beheld Anderson Crow, his badges glistening.

"How are you, officer?" said Jackie cheerily. Miss Marmaduke, in her happiness, beamed a smile upon the austere man with the chin whiskers. Anderson was past seventy, but that smile caused the intake of his breath to almost lift him from the ground.

"First rate, thanks; how's yourself? Readin' the reward notice? Lemme tell you something. There's goin' to be somethin' happen tarnation soon that will astonish them fellers ef—" but here Anderson pulled up with a jerk, realising that he was on the point of betraying a great secret. Afraid to trust himself in continued conversation, he abruptly said: "Good afternoon," and started off down the street, his ears tingling.

"Queer old chap, isn't he?" observed Jackie, and immediately forgot him as they strolled onward.

That evening Tinkletown swarmed with strangers. The weather was fine, and scores of the summer dwellers in the hills across the river came over to see the performance, as the advance agent had predicted. Bluff Top Hotel sent a large delegation of people seeking the variety of life. There were automobiles, traps, victorias, hay-racks, and "sundowns" standing all along the street in the vicinity of Hapgood's Grove. It was to be, in the expansive language of the press agent, "a cultured audience made up of the elite of the community."

Late in the afternoon, a paralysing thought struck in upon the marshal's brain. It occurred to him that this band of robbers might also be engaged to carry off Rosalie Gray. After all, it might be the great dominant reason for their descent upon the community. Covered with a perspiration that was not caused by heat, he accosted Wicker Bonner, the minute that gentleman arrived in town. Rosalie went, of course, to the Crow home for a short visit with the family.

"Say, Wick, I want you to do me a favour," said Anderson eagerly, taking the young man aside. "I cain't tell you all about it, 'cause I'm bound by a deathless oath. But, listen, I'm afraid somethin's goin' to happen to-night. There's a lot o' strangers here, an' I'm nervous about Rosalie. Somebody might try to steal her in the excitement. Now I want you to take good keer of her. Don't let 'er out o' your sight, an' don't let anybody git 'er away from you. I'll keep my eye on her, too. Promise me."

"Certainly, Mr. Crow. I'll look out for her. That's what I hope to do all the rest of—'

"Somethin's liable to happen," Mr. Crow broke in, and then quietly slipped away.

Bonner laughed easily at the old man's fears and set them down as a part of his whimsical nature. Later, he saw the old man near the entrance as the party passed inside the inclosure. The Bonner party occupied prominent seats in front, reserved by the marshal. There were ten in the group, a half-dozen young Boston people completing the house party.

The side walls of a pavilion inclosed the most beautiful section of the grove. In one end were the seats, rapidly filling with people. At the opposite end, upon Mother Earth's green carpet, was the stage, lighted dimly by means of subdued spot lights and a few auxiliary stars on high. There was no scenery save that provided by Nature herself. An orchestra of violins broke through the constant hum of eager voices.

Anderson Crow's heart was inside the charmed inclosure, but his person was elsewhere. Simultaneously, with the beginning of the performance of "As You like It," he was in his own barn-loft confronting Andrew Gregory and the five bewhiskered assistants from New York City. Gregory had met the detectives at the Inn and had guided them to the marshal's barn, where final instructions were to be given. For half an hour the party discussed plans with Anderson Crow, speaking in low, mysterious tones that rang in the marshal's ears to his dying day.

"We've located those fellows," asserted Mr. Gregory firmly. "There can be no mistake. They are already in the audience over there, and at a signal will set to work to hold up the whole crowd. We must get the drop on them, Mr. Crow, Don't do that! You don't need a disguise. Keep those yellow whiskers in your pocket. The rest of us will wear disguises. These men came here disguised because the robbers would be onto them in a minute if they didn't. They know every detective's face in the land. If it were not for these beards and wigs they'd have spotted Pinkerton's men long ago. Now, you know your part in the affair, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," respectfully responded Anderson, his chin whisker wobbling pathetically.

"Then we're ready to proceed. It takes a little nerve, that's all, but we'll soon have those robbers just where we want them," said Andrew Gregory.

The second act of the play was fairly well under way when Orlando, in the "green room," remarked to the stage director:

"What's that old rube doing back here, Ramsay? Why, hang it, man, he's carrying a couple of guns. Is this a hold-up?" At the same instant Rosalind and two of the women came rushing from their dressing tent, alarmed and indignant. Miss Marmaduke, her eyes blazing, confronted the stage director.

"What does this mean, Mr. Ramsay?" she cried. "That old man ordered us out of our dressing-room at the point of a revolver, and—see! There he is now doing the same to the men."

It was true. Anderson Crow, with a brace of horse pistols, was driving the players toward the centre of the stage. In a tremulous voice he commanded them to remain there and take the consequences. A moment later the marshal of Tinkletown strode into the limelight with his arsenal, facing an astonished and temporarily amused audience. His voice, pitched high with excitement, reached to the remotest corners of the inclosure. Behind him the players were looking on, open-mouthed and bewildered. To them he loomed up as the long-dreaded constable detailed to attach their personal effects. The audience, if at first it laughed at him as a joke, soon changed its view. Commotion followed his opening speech.



CHAPTER XXXII

The Luck of Anderson Crow

"Don't anybody attempt to leave this tent!" commanded Mr. Crow, standing bravely forth with his levelled revolvers. The orchestra made itself as small as possible, for one of the guns wavered dangerously. "Don't be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen. The train robbers are among you."

There were a few feminine shrieks, a volume of masculine "Whats!" a half-hearted and uncertain snigger, and a general turning of heads.

"Keep your seats!" commanded Anderson. "They can't escape. I have them surrounded. I now call upon all robbers present to surrender in the name of the law. Surrender peaceful and you will not he damaged; resist and we'll blow you to hell an' gone, even at the risk of injurin' the women and childern. The law is no respecter of persons. Throw up your hands!"

He waited impressively, but either through stupefaction or obstinacy the robbers failed to lift their hands.

"You're cornered, you golderned scamps!" shouted Anderson Crow, "an' you might jest as well give up! Twenty Pinkerton men are here from New York City, an' you can't escape! Throw up your hands!"

"The damned old fool is in earnest," gasped Judge Brewster, from across the river.

"He's crazy!" cried Congressman Bonner.

"Let everybody in this crowd throw up their hands!" called a firm, clear voice from the entrance. At the same instant five bewhiskered individuals appeared as if by magic with drawn revolvers, dominating the situation completely. The speaker was Andrew Gregory, the insurance agent.

"Now, what have you got to say?" cried Anderson gaily. "I guess me an' the detectives have you cornered all right, ain't we?"

The audience sat stupefied, paralysed. While all this was going on upon the inside, a single detective on the outside was stealthily puncturing the tires of every automobile in the collection, Mr. Bracken's huge touring car being excepted for reasons to be seen later on.

"Good heavens!" groaned old Judge Brewster. A half dozen women fainted and a hundred men broke into a cold perspiration.

"Hands up, everybody!" commanded Andrew Gregory. "We can take no chances. The train robbers are in this audience. They came to hold up the entire crowd, but we are too quick for you, my fine birds. The place is surrounded!"

"Mr. Gregory, the insurance—" began Anderson Crow, but he was cut short.

"Mr. Crow deserves great credit for this piece of detective work. His mere presence is a guaranty of safety to those of you who are not thieves. You all have your hands up? Thanks. Mr. Crow, please keep those actors quiet. Now, ladies and gentlemen, it is not always an easy matter to distinguish thieves from honest men. I will first give the desperadoes a chance to surrender peaceably. No one steps forward? Very well. Keep your hands up, all of you. The man who lowers his hands will be instantly regarded as a desperado and may get a bullet in his body for his folly. The innocent must suffer with the guilty. Mr. Crow, shall we proceed with the search?"

"Yes, sir; go right ahead, and be quick," replied Anderson Crow.

"Very well, then, in the name of the law, my men will begin the search. They will pass among you, ladies and gentlemen, and any effort to retard their progress will be met with instant—well, you know."

Before the petrified audience could fully realise what was taking place, three of the detectives were swiftly passing from person to person, stripping the women of their jewels, the men of their money and their watches. A half-hearted protest went up to Anderson Crow, but it was checked summarily by the "searching party." It was well for the poor marshal that he never knew what the audience thought of him at that ghastly moment.

It was all over in five minutes. The detectives had searched every prosperous-looking person in the audience, under the very nose and guns of Marshal Crow, and they were sardonically bidding the assemblage a fond good-bye from the flapping doorway in the side wall. Andrew Gregory addressed the crowd, smiling broadly.

"We found a good many more robbers in the crowd than we could conveniently handle, ladies and gentlemen. In fact, I never came across such a rare collection of hold-up men outside of Wall Street. The only perfectly honest man in Tinkletown to-night is Anderson Crow, your esteemed marshal. Believe me, he is ridiculously honest. He may be a damn fool, but he is honest. Don't blame him. Thanking you, one and all, for your generous help in our search for the train robbers, we bid you an affectionate farewell. We may meet again if you travel extensively on express trains. Good-night!"

With a taunting laugh, Andrew Gregory dropped the flap and leaped after his companions. Bracken's chauffeur lay senseless by the roadside, and one of the "detectives" sat in his seat. Even as the audience opened its collective mouth to shout its wrath and surprise, the big touring car, with six armed men aboard, leaped away with a rush. Down the dark road it flew like an express train, its own noise drowning the shouts of the multitude, far behind.

Bonner, recovering from his stupefaction and rage, led the pursuit, first commanding Rosalie to hurry home with the women and lock herself safely indoors.

Anderson Crow, realising what a dupe he had been in the hands of the clever scoundrels, was covered with fear and shame. The outraged crowd might have killed him had not his escape been made under cover of darkness. Shivering and moaning in abject misery, the pride of Tinkletown fled unseeing, unthinking into the forest along the river. He was not to know until afterward that his "detectives" had stripped the rich sojourners of at least ten thousand dollars in money and jewels. It is not necessary to say that the performance of "As You Like It" came to an abrupt end, because it was not as they liked it. Everybody knew by this time that they had seen the celebrated "train robbers."

Jackie Blake was half dressed when he leaped to his feet with an exclamation so loud that those preceding it were whispers.

"Holy smoke!" fell from his lips; and then he dashed across the green to the women's dressing tent. "Cora! Cora! Come out!"

"I can't," came back in muffled tones.

"Then good-bye; I'm off!" he shouted. That brought her, partially dressed, from the tent. "Say, do you remember the river road we walked over to-day? Well, those fellows went in that direction, didn't they? Don't you see? Aren't you on? The washout! If they don't know about it the whole bunch is at the bottom of the ravine or in the river by this time! Mum's the word! There's a chance, darling; the reward said 'dead or alive!' I'm off!"

She tried to call him back, but it was too late. With his own revolver in his hand, the half Orlando, half Blake, tore down the rarely travelled river road south. Behind him Tinkletown raved and wailed over the great calamity, but generally stood impotent in the face of it all. But few felt inclined to pursue the robbers. Blake soon had the race to himself. It was a mile or more to the washout in the road, but the excitement made him keen for the test. The road ran through the woods and along the high bluff that overlooked the river. He did not know it, but this same road was a "short cut" to the macadam pike farther south. By taking this route the robbers gave Boggs City a wide berth.

Blake's mind was full of the possibilities of disaster to the over-confident fugitives. The washout was fresh, and he was counting on the chance that they were not aware of its existence. If they struck it even at half speed the whole party would be hurled a hundred feet down to the edge of the river or into the current itself. In that event, some, if not all, would be seriously injured.

As he neared the turn in the road, his course pointed out to him by the stars above, he was startled half out of his boots by the sudden appearance of a man, who staggered from the roadside and wobbled painfully away, pleading for mercy.

"Halt, or I'll shoot!" called Jackie Blake, and the pathetic figure not only halted, but sat down in the middle of the road.

"For the Lord's sake, don't shoot!" groaned a hoarse voice. "I wasn't in cahoots with them. They fooled me—they fooled me." It was Anderson Crow, and he would have gone on interminably had not Jackie Blake stopped him short.

"You're the marshal, eh? The darned rube—"

"Yes, I'm him. Call me anything, only don't shoot. Who are you?" groaned Anderson, rising to his knees. He was holding his revolvers by the muzzles. "Never mind who I am. I haven't time. Say, you'd better come with me. Maybe we can head off those villains. They came this way and—"

"Show 'em to me," roared Anderson, recognising a friend. Rage surged up and drove out the shame in his soul. "I'll tackle the hull caboodle, dang 'em!" And he meant it, too.

Blake did not stop to explain, but started on, commanding Mr. Crow to follow. With rare fore-thought the marshal donned his yellow beard as he panted in the trail of the lithe young actor. The latter remembered that the odds were heavily against him. The marshal might prove a valuable aid in case of resistance, provided, of course, that they came upon the robbers in the plight he was hoping for.

"Where the dickens are you a-goin'?" wheezed the marshal, kicking up a great dust in the rear. The other did not answer. His whole soul was enveloped in the hope that the washout had trapped the robbers. He was almost praying that it might be so. The reward could be divided with the poor old marshal if—

He gave a yell of delight, an instant later, and then began jumping straight up and down like one demented. Anderson Crow stopped so abruptly that his knees were stiff for weeks. Jackie Blake's wild dream had come true. The huge automobile had struck the washout, and it was now lying at the base of the bluff, smashed to pieces on the rocks! By the dim light from the heavens, Blake could see the black hulk down there, but it was too dark to distinguish other objects. He was about to descend to the river bank when Anderson Crow came up.

"What's the matter, man?" panted he.

"They're down there, don't you see it? They went over the bluff right here—come on. We've got 'em!"

"Hold on!" exclaimed Anderson, grasping his arm. "Don't rush down there like a danged fool. If they're alive they can plug you full of bullets in no time. Let's be careful."

"By thunder, you're right. You're a wise old owl, after all. I never thought of that. Let's reconnoitre."

Tingling with excitement, the two oddly mated pursuers descended stealthily by a roundabout way. They climbed over rocks and crept through underbrush until finally they came to a clear spot not twenty feet from where the great machine was lying, at the very edge of the swift, deep current. They heard groans and faint cries, with now and then a piteous oath. From their hiding place they counted the forms of four men lying upon the rocks, as if dead. The two held a whispered consultation of war, a plan of action resulting.

"Surrender!" shouted Jackie Blake, standing forth. He and Anderson had their pistols levelled upon the prostrate robbers. For answer there were louder groans, a fiercer oath or two and then a weak, pain-struck voice came out to them:

"For God's sake, get this machine off my legs. I'm dying. Help! Help! We surrender!"

Ten minutes later, the jubilant captors had released the miserable Andrew Gregory from his position beneath the machine, and had successfully bound the hands and feet of five half-unconscious men. Gregory's legs were crushed and one other's skull was cracked. The sixth man was nowhere to be found. The disaster had been complete, the downfall of the great train robbers inglorious. Looking up into the face of Anderson Crow, Gregory smiled through his pain and said hoarsely:

"Damned rotten luck; but if we had to be taken, I'm glad you did it, Crow. You're a good fool, anyway. But for God's sake, get me to a doctor."

"Dang it! I'm sorry fer you, Mr. Gregory—" began Anderson, ready to cry.

"Don't waste your time, old man. I need the doctor. Are the others dead?" he groaned.

"I don't know," replied Jackie Blake. "Some of them look like it. We can't carry you up that hill, but we'll do the next best thing. Marshal, I'll stay here and guard the prisoners while you run to the village for help—and doctors."

"And run fast, Anderson," added Gregory. "You always were so devilish slow. Don't walk-trot."

Soon afterward, when Anderson, fagged but overjoyed, hobbled into the village, the excited crowd was ready to lynch him, but with his first words the atmosphere changed.

"Where is Jackie Blake?" sobbed a pretty young woman, grasping the proud marshal's arm and shaking him violently.

"Derned if I know, ma'am. Was he stole?"

She made him understand, and together, followed by the actors, the audience and the whole town, they led the way to the washout, the fair Rosalind dragging the overworked hero of the hour along at a gait which threatened to be his undoing.

Later on, after the five bandits had been carried to the village, Jackie Blake gladly informed his sweetheart that they could have easy sailing with the seven thousand dollars he expected. Anderson Crow had agreed to take but three thousand dollars for his share in the capture. One of the robbers was dead. The body of the sixth was found in the river weeks afterward.

"I'm glad I was the first on the ground," said Blake, in anticipation of the reward which was eventually to be handed over to him. "But Anderson Crow turned out to be a regular trump, after all. He's a corker!" He was speaking to Wicker Bonner and a crowd of New Yorkers.

Tinkletown began to talk of a monument to Anderson Crow, even while he lived. The general opinion was that it should be erected while he was still able to enjoy it and not after his death, when he would not know anything about its size and cost.

"By gosh! 'Twas a great capture!" swelling perceptibly. "I knowed they couldn't escape me. Dang 'em! they didn't figger on me, did they? Pshaw! it was reediculus of 'em to think they c'd fool me entirely, although I'll have to confess they did fool me at first. It was a desprit gang an' mighty slick."

"You worked it great, Anderson," said George Ray. "Did you know about the washout?"

"Did I know about it?" snorted Anderson witheringly. "Why, good Gosh a'mighty, didn't I purty near run my legs off to git there in time to throw down the barricade before they could get there with Mr. Bracken's automobile? Thunderation! What a fool question!"



CHAPTER XXXIII

Bill Briggs Tells a Tale

Tinkletown fairly bubbled with excitement. At last the eyes of the world were upon it. News of the great sensation was flashed to the end of the earth; every detail was gone into with harrowing minuteness. The Hemisphere Company announced by telegraph that it stood ready to hand over the ten thousand dollars; and the sheriff of Bramble County with all the United States deputy marshals within reach raced at once to Tinkletown to stick a finger in the pie.

The morning after the "great pavilion robbery," as it was called in the Banner, Anderson Crow and Bonner fared forth early to have a look at the injured desperadoes, all of whom were safely under guard at the reincarnated calaboose. Fifty armed men had stood guard all night long, notwithstanding the fact that one robber was dead and the others so badly injured that they were not expected to survive the day.

A horseman passed the marshal and his friend near the post-office, riding rapidly to the north. He waved his crop pleasantly to them and Bonner responded. Anderson stopped stock still and tried to speak, but did not succeed for a full minute; he was dumb with excitement.

"That's him!" he managed to gasp. "The feller I saw the other day—the man on horseback!"

"That?" cried Bonner, laughing heartily. "Why, that is John E. Barnes, the lawyer and probably a United States Senator some day. Good heavens, Mr. Crow, you've made a bad guess of it this time! He is staying with Judge Brewster, his father-in-law."

"What! Well, by Geminy! I thought I knowed him," cried Anderson. "They cain't fool me long, Wick—none of 'em. He's the same feller 'at run away with Judge Brewster's daughter more'n twenty year ago. 'y Gosh, I was standin' right on this very spot the first time I ever see him. He sold me a hoss and buggy—but I got the money back. I arrested him the same day."

"Arrested John Barnes?" in amazement.

"Yep—fer murder—only he wasn't the murderer. We follered him down the river—him an' the girl—to Bracken's place, but they were married afore we got there. Doggone, that was a busy day! Some blamed good detective work was did, too. I—"

"And Mr. Barnes was interested in Rosalie?" asked Bonner suddenly. "How could he have known anything about her?"

"That's what puzzles me. She came here about two years after the elopement more er less, but I don't remember ever seein' him after that time."

"It's very strange, Mr. Crow," reflected Bonner soberly. "He has a son, I know. His wife died a year or so after the boy's birth. Young Barnes is about twenty-one, I think at this time. By George! I've heard it said that Barnes and his wife were not hitting it off very well. They say she died of a broken heart. I've heard mother speak of it often. I wonder—great heavens, it isn't possible that Rosalie can be connected in any way with John Barnes? Anderson Crow, I—I wonder if there is a possibility?" Bonner was quivering with excitement, wonder—and—unbelief.

"I'm workin' on that clew," said Anderson as calmly as his tremors would permit. He was thrilled by the mere suggestion, but it was second nature for him to act as if every discovery were his own. "Ever sence I saw him on the road up there, I've been trackin' him. I tell you, Wick, he's my man. I've got it almost worked out. Just as soon as these blamed robbers are moved to Boggs City, er buried, I'm goin' over an' git the truth out of Mr. Barnes. I've been huntin' him fer twenty-one years." Anderson, of course, was forgetting that Barnes had slipped from his mind completely until Bonner nudged his memory into life.

"It's a delicate matter, Mr. Crow. We must go about it carefully," said Bonner severely. "If Mr. Barnes is really interested in her, we can't find it out by blundering; if he is not interested, we can't afford to drag him into it. It will require tact—"

"Thunderation, don't you suppose I know that?" exploded Anderson. "Detectives are allers tackin'. They got to, y' see, ef they're goin' to foller half a dozen clews at oncet. Gee whiz, Wick, leave this thing to me! I'll git at the bottom of it inside o' no time."

"Wait a few days, Mr. Crow," argued Bonner, playing for time. "Don't hurry. We've got all we can do now to take care of the fellows you and that young actor captured last night." The young man's plan was to keep Anderson off the trail entirely and give the seemingly impossible clew into the possession of the New York bureau.

"I don't know what I'd 'a' done ef it hadn't been fer that young feller," said the marshal. "He was right smart help to me last night." Bonner, who knew the true story, suppressed a smile and loved the old man none the less for his mild deception.

They entered the "calaboose," which now had all the looks and odours of a hospital. A half-dozen doctors had made the four injured men as comfortable as possible. They were stretched on mattresses in the jail dining-room, guarded by a curious horde of citizens.

"That's Gregory!" whispered Anderson, as they neared the suffering group. He pointed to the most distant cot. "That's jest the way he swore last night. Lie must 'a' shaved in the automobile last night," though Gregory had merely discarded the false whiskers he had worn for days.

"Wait!" exclaimed Bonner, stopping short beside the first cot. He stooped and peered intently into the face of the wounded bandit. "By George!"

"What's up?"

"As I live, Mr. Crow, this fellow was one of the gang that abducted Rosalie Gray last winter. I can swear to it. Don't you remember the one she tried to intercede for? Briggs! That's it! Briggs!"

The injured man slowly opened his eyes as the name was half shouted. A sickly grin spread slowly over his pain-racked face.

"She tried to intercede fer me, did she?" he murmured weakly. "She said she would. She was square."

"You were half decent to her," said Bonner. "How do you happen to be with this gang? Another kidnaping scheme afloat?"

"No—not that I know of. Ain't you the guy that fixed us? Say, on the dead, I was goin' to do the right thing by her that night. I was duckin' the gang when you slugged me. Honest, mister, I was goin' to put her friends next. Say, I don't know how bad I'm hurt, but if I ever git to trial, do what you can fer me, boss. On the dead, I was her friend."

Bonner saw pity in Anderson's face and rudely dragged him away, although Bill's plea was not addressed to the old marshal.

"Wait for me out here, Mr. Crow," said he when they reached the office. "You are overcome. I'll talk to him." He returned at once to the injured man's cot.

"Look here, Briggs, I'll do what I can for you, but I'm afraid it won't help much. What do the doctors say?"

"If they ain't lyin', I'll be up an' about in a few weeks. Shoulder and some ribs cracked and my legs stove up. I can't move. God, that was an awful tumble!" He shuddered in memory of the auto's leap.

"Is Sam or Davy in this gang?"

"No; Davy's at Blackwell's Island, an' Sam told me he was goin' to Canada fer his health. Jim Courtney is the leader of this gang. He sailed under the name of Gregory. That's him swearin' at the rubes."

"The thing for you to do is to make a clean breast of it, Briggs. It will go easier with you."

"Turn State's evidence? What good will that do when we was all caught with the goods?"

"If you will tell us all of the inside facts concerning the abduction I'll guarantee that something can be done to lighten your sentence. I am Congressman Bonner's nephew."

"So? I thought you was the swellest hold-up man I ever met, that night out in the woods. You'd do credit to Sam Welch himself. I'll tell you all I know, pardner, but it ain't a great deal. It won't do me any good to keep my mouth shut now, an', if you say so, it may help me to squeal. But, fer the Lord's sake, have one of these rotten doctors give me something to make me sleep. Don't they know what morphine is for?"

Growling and cursing at the doctors, Bill was moved into the office. Anderson came in from the dining-room at that juncture, visibly excited.

"I've got a confession from Gregory," he said. "He confesses that he oughter be hung."

"What!"

"That's what he said—'y ginger. Here's his very words, plain as day: 'I oughter be hung half a dozen times.' 'What fer?' says I. 'Fer bein' sech a damned ass,' said he. 'But that ain't a hangable offence,' said I. You know, I kinder like Gregory, spite of all. 'It's the worst crime in the world,' said he. 'Then you confess you've committed it?' said I, anxious to pin him right down to it, y' see.' 'ou bet I do. Ef they hang me it'll be because I'm a drivelling idiot, an' not because I've shot one er two in my time. Nobody but an ass could be caught at it, an' that's why I feel so infernal guilty. Look here, Mr. Crow, ever' time you see a feller that's proved himself a downright ass, jest take him out an' lynch him. He deserves it, that's all I've got to say. The greatest crime in the world is criminal neglect.' Don't bother me now, Wick; I'm going to write that down an' have him sign it."

"Look here, pard," said Bill Briggs, laboriously breaking in upon their conversation; "I want to do the right thing by you an' her as fer as I can. You've been good to me, an' I won't fergit it. Besides, you said you'd make things easy fer me if I told you what I knowed about that job last winter. Well, I'd better tell it now, 'cause I'm liable to pass in my checks before these doctors git through with me. An' besides, they'll be haulin' me off to the county seat in a day or two. Now, this is dead straight, I'm goin' to give you. Maybe it won't help you none, but '11 give you a lead."

"Go on," cried Bonner breathlessly.

"Well, Sam Welch come to me in Branigan's place one night—that's in Fourt' Avenue—an' says he's got a big job on. We went over to Davy Wolfe's house an' found him an' his mother—the old fairy, you remember. Well, to make it short, Sam said it was a kidnaping job an' the Wolfes was to be in on it because they used to live in this neighbourhood an' done a lot of work here way back in the seventies. There was to be five thousand dollars in the job if we got that girl safe on board a ship bound fer Europe. Sam told us that the guy what engineered the game was a swell party an' a big boy in politics, finance, society an' ever'thin' else. He could afford to pay, but he didn't want to be seen in the job. Nobody but Sam ever seen his face. Sam used to be in politics some. Jest before we left New York to come up here, the swell guy comes around to Davy's with another guy fer final orders. See? It was as cold as h—— as the dickens—an' the two of 'em was all muffled up so's we couldn't get a pipe at their mugs. One of 'em was old—over fifty, I guess—an' the other was a young chap. I'm sure of that.

"They said that one or the other of 'em would be in this neighbourhood when the job was pulled off; that one thousand dollars would be paid down when we started; another thousand when we got 'er into the cave; and the rest when we had 'er at the dock in New York—alive an' unhurt. See? We was given to understand that she was to travel all the rest of 'er life fer 'er health. I remember one thing plain: The old man said to the young 'un: 'She must not know a thing of this, or it will ruin everything.' He wasn't referrin' to the girl either. There was another woman in the case. They seemed mighty anxious to pull the job off without this woman gettin' next.

"Well, we got ready to start, and the two parties coughed up the thousand plunks—that is, the young 'un handed it over to Sam when the old 'un told him to. Sam took three hundred and the rest of us two hundred a piece. When they were lookin' from the winder to see that nobody on the streets was watchin' the house, I asked Sam if he knowed either of them by name. He swore he didn't, but I think he lied. But jest before they left the house, I happened to look inside of the old boy's hat—he had a stiff dicer. There was a big gilt letter in the top of it."

"What was that letter?" demanded Bonner eagerly.

"It was a B."

Bonner looked at Anderson as if the floor were being drawn from under his feet.

"The young chap said somethin' low to the old 'un about takin' the night train back to the University an' comin' down again Saturday."

"To the University? Which one? Did he mention the name?" cried Bonner.

"No. That's all he said."

"Good heavens, if it should be!" said Bonner as if to himself.

"Well, we come up here an' done the job. You know about that, I guess. Sam saw the young feller one night up at Boggs City, an' got instructions from him. He was to help us git 'er away from here in an automobile, an' the old man was to go across the ocean with 'er. That's all I know. It didn't turn out their way that time, but Sam says it's bound to happen."

Bonner, all eagerness and excitement, quickly looked around for Anderson, but the marshal had surreptitiously left the room. Then, going over to the door, he called for Anderson Crow. Bud Long was there.

"Anderson left five minutes ago, Mr. Bonner, hurryin' like the dickens, too," he said. "He's gone to hunt up a feller named Barnes. He told me to tell you when you came out."



CHAPTER XXXIV

Elsie Banks Returns

Bonner, considerably annoyed and alarmed by the marshal's actions, made every effort to turn him back before he could ruin everything by an encounter with Mr. Barnes. He sent men on bicycles and horseback to overtake him; but the effort was unsuccessful. Mr. Crow had secured a "ride" in an automobile which had brought two newspaper correspondents over from Boggs City. They speeded furiously in order to catch a train for New York, but agreed to drop the marshal at the big bridge, not more than a mile from Judge Brewster's place.

Chagrined beyond expression, he made ready to follow Anderson with all haste in his own machine. Rosalie hurriedly perfected preparations to accompany him. She was rejoining the house party that day, was consumed by excitement over the situation, and just as eager as Bonner to checkmate the untimely operations of poor old Anderson Crow.

The marshal had more than half an hour's start of them. Bonner was his own chauffeur and he was a reckless one to-day. Luck was against him at the outset. The vigorous old detective inspired to real speed, for the first time in his lackadaisacal life, left the newspaper men at the bridge nearly three-quarters of an hour before Bonner passed the same spot, driving furiously up the hill toward Judge Brewster's.

"If your bothersome old daddy gets his eyes on Barnes before I can head him off, dearest, the jig will be up," groaned Bonner, the first words he had spoken in miles. "Barnes will be on his guard and ready for anything. The old—pardon me, for saying it—the old jay ought to know the value of discretion in a case like this."

"Poor old daddy," she sighed, compassion in her heart. "He thinks he is doing it for the best. Wicker, I hope it is—it is not Mr. Barnes," she added, voicing a thought which had been struggling in her mind for a long time.

"Why not, dearest?"

"It would mean one of two things. Either he does not want to recognise me as his child—or cannot, which is even worse. Wicker, I don't want to know the truth. I am afraid—I am afraid."

She was trembling like a leaf and there was positive distress in her eyes, eyes half covered by lids tense with alarm.

"Don't feel that way about it, dear," cried he, recovering from his astonishment and instantly grasping the situation as it must have appeared to her. "To tell you the truth, I do not believe that Mr. Barnes is related to you in any way. If he is connected with the case at all, it is in the capacity of attorney."

"But he is supposed to be an honourable man."

"True, and I still believe him to be. It does not seem possible that he can be engaged in such work as this. We are going altogether on supposition—putting two and two together, don't you know, and hoping they will stick. But, in any event, we must not let any chance slip by. If he is interested, we must bring him to time. It may mean the unravelling of the whole skein, dear. Don't look so distressed. Be brave. It doesn't matter what we learn in the end, I love you just the same. You shall be my wife."

"I do love you, Wicker. I will always love you."

"Dear little sweetheart!"

They whirled up to the lodge gate at Judge Brewster's place at last, the throbbing machine coming to a quick stop. Before he called out to the lodge keeper, Bonner impulsively drew her gloveless hand to his lips.

"Nothing can make any difference now," he said.

The lodge keeper, in reply to Bonner's eager query, informed them that Mr. Barnes had gone away ten or fifteen minutes before with an old man who claimed to be a detective, and who had placed the great lawyer under arrest.

"Good Lord!" gasped Bonner with a sinking heart.

"It's an outrage, sir! Mr. Barnes is the best man in the world. He never wronged no one, sir. There's an 'orrible mistake, sir," groaned the lodge keeper. "Judge Brewster is in Boggs City, and the man wouldn't wait for his return. He didn't even want to tell Mr. Barnes what 'e was charged with."

"Did you ever hear of anything so idiotic?" roared Bonner. Rosalie was white and red by turn. "What direction did they take?"

"The constable told Mr. Barnes he'd 'ave to go to Tinkletown with 'im at once, sir, even if he 'ad to walk all the way. The old chap said something, sir, about a man being there who could identify him on sight. Mr. Barnes 'ad to laugh, sir, and appeared to take it all in good humour. He said he'd go along of 'im, but he wouldn't walk. So he got his own auto out, sir, and they went off together. They took the short cut, sir, by the ferry road, 'eaded for Tinkletown. Mr. Barnes said he'd be back before noon, sir—if he wasn't lynched."

"It's all over," groaned Bonner dejectedly. Something had slipped from under his feet and he was dangling in space, figuratively speaking. "There's nothing to do, Rosalie, except to chase them down. Mr. Crow has ruined everything. I'll leave you at Bonner Place with mother and Edith, and I'll hurry back to Tinkletown."

The excitement was too much for Rosalie's nerves. She was in a state of physical collapse when he set her down at his uncle's summer home half an hour later. Leaving her to explain the situation to the curious friends, he set speed again for Tinkletown, inwardly cursing Anderson Crow for a meddling old fool.

In the meantime Tinkletown was staring open-mouthed upon a new sensation. The race between Anderson and Bonner was hardly under way when down the main street of the town came a jaded team and surrey. Behind the driver sat a pretty young woman with an eager expression on her pale face, her gaze bent intently on the turn in the street which hid Anderson Crow's home from view. Beside the young woman lounged another of her sex, much older, and to all appearances, in a precarious state of health. The young men along the street gasped in amazement and then ventured to doff their timid hats to the young woman, very much as if they were saluting a ghost. Few of them received a nod of recognition from Elsie Banks, one-time queen of all their hearts.

Roscoe Crow bounded out to the gate when he saw who was in the carriage, first shouting to his mother and sisters, who were indoors receiving congratulations and condolences from their neighbours.

Miss Banks immediately inquired if she could see Rosalie.

"She ain't here," said Roscoe. "She's away fer a month—over at the Bonners'. He's her feller, you know. Ma! Here's Miss Banks! Edner! Sue!" Mrs. Crow and the girls flew out to the gate, babbling their surprise and greetings.

"This is my mother," introduced the young lady. "We have just come from New York, Mrs. Crow. We sail for England this week, and I must see Rosalie before we go. How can we get to Mr. Bonner's place?"

"It's across the river, about twelve miles from here," said Mrs. Crow. "Come in and rest yourselves. You don't have to go back to-day, do you? Ain't you married yet?"

"No, Mrs. Crow," responded Elsie, with a stiff, perfunctory smile. "Thank you, we cannot stop. It is necessary that we return to New York to-night, but I must see Rosalie before going. You see, Mrs. Crow, I do not expect to return to America. We are to live in London forever, I fear. It may be the last chance I'll have to see Rosalie. I must go on to Bonner Place to-day. But, dear me, I am so tired and hot, and it is so far to drive," she cried ruefully. "Do you know the way, driver?" The driver gruffly admitted that he did not. Roscoe eagerly bridged the difficulty by offering to act as pathfinder.

At first Mrs. Banks tried to dissuade her daughter from undertaking the long trip, but the girl was obstinate. Her mother then flatly refused to accompany her, complaining of her head and heart. In the end the elder lady decided to accept Mrs. Crow's invitation to remain at the house until Elsie's return.

"I shall bring Rosalie back with me, mother," said Elsie as she prepared to drive away. Mrs. Banks, frail and wan, bowed her head listlessly and turned to follow her hostess indoors. With Roscoe in the seat with the driver, the carriage started briskly off down the shady street, headed for the ferry road and Bonner Place.

To return to Anderson Crow and his precipitancy. Just as the lodge keeper had said, the marshal, afoot and dusty, descended upon Mr. Barnes without ceremony. The great lawyer was strolling about the grounds when his old enemy arrived. He recognised the odd figure as it approached among the trees.

"Hello, Mr. Crow!" he called cheerily. "Are you going to arrest me again?" He advanced to shake hands.

"Yes, sir; you are my prisoner," said Anderson, panting, but stern. "I know you, Mr. Barnes. It won't do you any good to deny it."

"Come in and sit down. You look tired," said Barnes genially, regarding his words as a jest; but Anderson proudly stood his ground.

"You can't come any game with me. It won't do you no good to be perlite, my man. This time you don't git away."

"You don't mean to say you are in earnest?" cried Barnes.

"I never joke when on duty. Come along with me. You c'n talk afterward. Your hirelin' is in jail an' he c'n identify you; so don't resist."

"Wait a moment, sir. What is the charge?"

"I don't know yet. You know better'n I do what it is."

"Look here, Mr. Crow. You arrested me the first time I ever saw you, and now you yank me up again, after all these years. Haven't you anything else to do but arrest me by mistake? Is that your only occupation?"

Anderson sputtered indignantly. Driven to it, he informed John Barnes that he was charged with kidnaping, attempted murder, polygamy, child desertion, and nearly everything else under the sun. Barnes, at first indignant, finally broke into a hearty laugh. He magnanimously agreed to accompany his captor to Tinkletown. Not only that, but he provided the means of transportation. To the intense dismay of the servants, he merrily departed with Mr. Crow, a prisoner operating his own patrol wagon. The two were smoking the captive's best cigars.

"It's mighty nice of you, Mr. Barnes, to let us use your autermobile," said Anderson, benignly puffing away as they bowled off through the dust. "It would 'a' been a long walk. I'll speak a good word fer you fer this."

"Don't mention it, old chap. I rather enjoy it. It's been uncommonly dull up here. I did not get away as soon as I expected, you see. So I am charged with being Rosalie's father, eh? And deserting her? And kidnaping her? By jove, I ought to be hung for all this!"

"'Tain't nothin' to laugh at, my friend. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I was onto you the day you stopped me in the road an' ast about her. What a fool you was. Reg'lar dead give-away."

"See here, Mr. Crow, I don't like to upset your hopes and calculations," said Barnes soberly. "I did that once before, you remember. That was years ago. You were wrong then, and you are wrong now. Shall I tell you why I am interested in this pretty waif of yours?"

"It ain't necessary," protested the marshal.

"I'll tell you just the same. My son met her in New York while he was at school. He heard her story from mutual friends and repeated it to me. I was naturally interested, and questioned you. He said she was very pretty. That is the whole story, my dear sir."

"That's all very purty, but how about the B in your hat?"

"I don't understand. Oh, you mean the political bee?"

"Politics, your granny! I mean the 'nitial that Briggs saw. No; hold on! Don't answer. Don't say anything that'll incriminate yourself."

"I never had an initial in my hat, and I don't know Briggs. Mr. Crow, you are as crazy as a loon." He prepared to bring the machine to a standstill. "I'm going home. You can ride back with me or get out and walk on, just as you please."

"Hold on! Don't do that! I'll see that you're paid fer the use of the machine. Besides, consarn ye, you're my prisoner." This was too much for Barnes. He laughed long and loud, and he did not turn back.

Just beyond the ferry they turned aside to permit a carriage to pass. A boy on the box with the driver shouted frantically after them, and Anderson tried to stop the machine himself.

"Stop her!" he cried; "that's Roscoe, my boy. Hold on! Who's that with him? Why, by cracky, it's Miss Banks! Gee whiz, has she come back here to teach again? Whoa! Turn her around, Mr. Barnes. They are motionin' fer us to come back. 'Pears to be important, too."

Barnes obligingly turned around and ran back to where the carriage was standing. An hour later the automobile rolled into the driveway at Bonner Place, and Anderson Crow, a glorious triumph in his face, handed Miss Banks from the tonneau and into the arms of Rosalie Gray, who at first had mistaken the automobile for another. Pompous to the point of explosion, Anderson waved his hand to the party assembled on the veranda, strolled around to Mr. Barnes's seat and acquired a light for his cigar with a nonchalance that almost overcame his one-time prisoner, and then said, apparently to the whole world, for he addressed no one in particular:

"I knowed I could solve the blamed thing if they'd jest give me time."



CHAPTER XXXV.

The Story is Told

Elsie Banks had a small and select audience in Mrs. Bonner's room upstairs. She had come from New York—or from California, strictly speaking—to furnish the narrative which was to set Rosalie Gray's mind at rest forever-more. It was not a pleasant task; it was not an easy sacrifice for this spirited girl who had known luxury all her life. Her spellbound hearers were Mrs. Bonner and Edith, Wicker Bonner, Anderson Crow, Rosalie, and John E. Barnes, who, far from being a captive of the law, was now Miss Gray's attorney, retained some hours before by his former captor.

"I discharge you, sir," Anderson had said, after hearing Miss Bank's statement in the roadway. "You are no longer a prisoner. Have you anything to say, sir?"

"Nothing, Mr. Crow, except to offer my legal services to you and your ward in this extraordinary matter. Put the matter in my hands, sir, and she shall soon come into her own, thanks to this young lady. I may add that, as I am not in the habit of soliciting clients, it is not my intention in this instance to exact a fee from your ward. My services are quite free, given in return, Mr. Crow, for the magnanimous way in which you have taken me into your confidence ever since I have known you. It is an honour to have been arrested by you; truthfully it is no disgrace."

In the privacy of Mrs. Bonner's sitting-room, Elsie Banks, dry-eyed and bitter, told the story of her life. I cannot tell it as she did, for she was able to bring tears to the eyes of her listeners. It is only for me to relate the bare facts, putting them into her words as closely as possible. Rosalie Gray, faint with astonishment and incredulity, a lump in her throat that would not go down, and tears in her eyes, leaned back in an easy-chair and watched her unhappy friend.

"I shall provide Mr. Barnes with proof of everything I say," said Miss Banks. "There can be no difficulty, Rosalie dear, in confirming all that I have to tell. If you will permit me to relate the story without interruption and afterward let me go my way without either pity or contempt, I shall be, oh, so grateful to you all—especially to you, dear Rosalie. Believe me I love you with my whole soul.

"I have come to you voluntarily, and my mother, who is in Tinkletown, in resigning herself to the calls of conscience, is now happier than she has ever been before. A more powerful influence than her own will or her own honour, an influence that was evil to the core, inspired her to countenance this awful wrong. It also checkmated every good impulse she may have had to undo it in after years. That influence came from Oswald Banks, a base monster to whom my mother was married when I was a year old. My mother was the daughter of Lord Abbott Brace, but married my own father, George Stuart, who was a brilliant but radical newspaper writer in London, against her father's wish. For this he cast her off and disinherited her. Grandfather hated him and his views, and he could not forgive my mother even after my father died, which was two years after their marriage.

"Lord Richard Brace, my mother's only brother, married the daughter of the Duchess of B——. You, Rosalie, are Lady Rosalie Brace of Brace Hall, W—shire, England, the true granddaughter of General Lord Abbott Brace, one of the noblest and richest men of his day. Please let me go on; I cannot endure the interruptions. The absolute, unalterable proof of what I say shall be established through the confession of my own mother, in whose possession lies every document necessary to give back to you that which she would have given to me.

"Your mother died a few weeks after you were born, and Sir Richard, who loved my mother in the face of his father's displeasure, placed you in her care, while he rushed off, heart-broken, to find solace in Egypt. It is said that he hated you because you were the cause of her death. On the day after your birth, old Lord Brace changed his will and bequeathed a vast amount of unentailed property to you, to be held in trust by your father until you were twenty-one years of age. I was almost two years old at the time, and the old man, unexpectedly compassionate, inserted a provision which, in the event that you were to die before that time, gave all this money to me on my twenty-first birthday. The interest on this money, amounting to five thousand pounds annually, was to go to you regularly, in one case, or to me, in the other. Oswald Banks was an American, whom my mother had met in London several years prior to her first marriage. He was the London representative of a big Pennsylvania manufacturing concern. He was ambitious, unscrupulous and clever beyond conception. He still is all of these and more, for he is now a coward.

"Well, it was he who concocted the diabolical scheme to one day get possession of your inheritance. He coerced my poor mother into acquiescense, and she became his wretched tool instead of an honoured wife and helpmate. One night, when you were three weeks old, the house in which we lived was burned to the ground, the inmates narrowly escaping. So narrow was the escape, in fact, that you were said to have been left behind in the confusion, and the world was told, the next day, that the granddaughter of Lord Brace had been destroyed by the flames.

"The truth, however, was not told. My stepfather did not dare to go so far as to kill you. It was he who caused the fire, but he had you removed to a small hotel in another part of the city some hours earlier, secretly, of course, but in charge of a trusted maid. My mother was responsible for this. She would not listen to his awful plan to leave you in the house. But you might just as well have died. No one was the wiser and you were given up as lost. A week later, my mother and Mr. Banks started for America. You and I were with them, but you went as the daughter of a maid-servant—Ellen Hayes.

"This is the story as my mother has told it to me after all these years. My stepfather's plan, of course, was to place you where you could never be found, and then to see to it that our grandfather did not succeed in changing his will. Moreover, he was bound and determined that he himself should be named as trustee—when the fortune came over at Lord Brace's death. That part of it turned out precisely as he had calculated. Let me go on a few months in advance of my story. Lord Brace died, and the will was properly probated and the provisions carried out. Brace Hall and the estates went to your father and the bequest came to me, for you were considered dead. My stepfather was made trustee. He gave bond in England and America, I believe. In any event, the fortune was to be mine when I reached the age of twenty-one, but each year the income, nearly twenty-five thousand dollars, was to be paid to my stepfather as trustee, to be safely invested by him. My mother's name was not mentioned in the document, except once, to identify me as the beneficiary. I can only add to this phase of the hateful conspiracy, that for nineteen years my stepfather received this income, and that he used it to establish his own fortune. By investing what was supposed to be my money, he has won his own way to wealth.

"Mr. Banks decided that the operations were safest from this side of the Atlantic. He and my mother took up their residence in New York, and it has been their home ever since. He spent the first half year after your suspected death in London, solely for the purpose of establishing himself in Lord Brace's favour. Within a year after the death of Lord Brace your father was killed by a poacher on the estate. He had but lately returned from Egypt, and was in full control of the lands and property attached to Brace Hall. If my stepfather had designs upon Brace Hall, they failed, for the lands and the title went at once to your father's cousin, Sir Harry Brace, the present lord.

"So much for the conditions in England then and now. I now return to that part of the story which most interests and concerns you. My poor mother was compelled, within a fortnight after we landed in New York, to give up the dangerous infant who was always to hang like a cloud between fortune and honour. The maid-servant was paid well for her silence. By the way, she died mysteriously soon after coming to America, but not before giving to my mother a signed paper setting forth clearly every detail in so far as it bore upon her connection with the hateful transaction. Conscience was forever at work in my mother's heart; honour was constantly struggling to the surface, only to be held back by fear of and loyalty to the man she loved.

"It was decided that the most humane way to put you out of existence was to leave you on the doorstep of some kindly disposed person, far from New York. My stepfather and my mother deliberately set forth on this so-called mission of mercy. They came north, and by chance, fell in with a resident of Boggs City while in the station at Albany. They were debating which way to turn for the next step. My mother was firm in the resolve that you should be left in the care of honest, reliable, tender-hearted people, who would not abuse the trust she was to impose. The Boggs City man said he had been in Albany to see about a bill in the legislature, which was to provide for the erection of a monument in Tinkletown—where a Revolutionary battle had been fought. It was he who spoke of Anderson Crow, and it was his stories of your goodness and generosity, Mr. Crow, that caused them to select you as the man who was to have Rosalie, and, with her, the sum of one thousand dollars a year for your trouble and her needs.

"My mother's description of that stormy night in February, more than twenty-one years ago, is the most pitiful thing I have ever listened to. Together they made their way to Tinkletown, hiring a vehicle in Boggs City for the purpose. Mr. Banks left the basket on your porch while mother stood far down the street and waited for him, half frozen and heartsick. Then they hurried out of town and were soon safely on their way to New York. It was while my stepfather was in London, later on, that mother came up to see Rosalie and make that memorable first payment to Mr. Crow. How it went on for years, you all know. It was my stepfather's cleverness that made it so impossible to learn the source from which the mysterious money came.

"We travelled constantly, always finding new places of interest in which my mother's conscience could be eased by contact with beauty and excitement. Gradually she became hardened to the conditions, for, after all, was it not her own child who was to be enriched by the theft and the deception? Mr. Banks constantly forced that fact in upon her mother-love and her vanity. Through it all, however, you were never neglected nor forgotten. My mother had your welfare always in mind. It was she who saw that you and I were placed at the same school in New York, and it was she who saw that your training in a way was as good as it could possibly be without exciting risk.

"Of course, I knew nothing of all this. I was rolling in wealth and luxury, but not in happiness. Instinctively I loathed my stepfather. He was hard, cruel, unreasonable. It was because of him that I left school and afterward sought to earn my own living. You know, Rosalie, how Tom Reddon came into my life. He was the son of William Reddon, my stepfather's business partner, who had charge of the Western branch of the concern in Chicago. We lived in Chicago for several years, establishing the business. Mr. Banks was until recently president of the Banks & Reddon Iron Works. Last year, you doubtless know, the plant was sold to the great combine and the old company passed out of existence. This act was the result of a demand from England that the trust under which he served be closed and struck from the records. It was his plan to settle the matter, turn the inheritance over to me according to law, and then impose upon my inexperience for all time to come. The money, while mine literally, was to be his in point of possession.

"But he had reckoned without the son of his partner. Tom Reddon in some way learned the secret, and he was compelled to admit the young man into all of his plans. This came about some three years ago, while I was in school. I had known Tom Reddon in Chicago. He won my love. I cannot deny it, although I despise him to-day more deeply than I ever expect to hate again. He was even more despicable than my stepfather. Without the faintest touch of pity, he set about to obliterate every chance Rosalie could have had for restitution. Time began to prove to me that he was not the man I thought him to be. His nature revealed itself; and I found I could not marry him. Besides, my mother was beginning to repent. She awoke from her stupor of indifference and strove in every way to circumvent the plot of the two conspirators, so far as I was concerned. The strain told on her at last, and we went to California soon after my ridiculous flight from Tinkletown last winter. It was not until after that adventure that I began to see deep into the wretched soul of Tom Reddon.

"Then came the most villainous part of the whole conspiracy. Reddon, knowing full well that exposure was possible at any time, urged my stepfather to have you kidnaped and hurried off to some part of the world where you could never be found. Even Reddon did not have the courage to kill you. Neither had the heart to commit actual murder. It was while we were at Colonel Randall's place that the abduction took place, you remember. Mr. Banks and Tom Reddon had engaged their men in New York. These desperadoes came to Boggs City while Tom was here to watch their operations. All the time Mr. Crow was chasing us down Reddon was laughing in his sleeve, for he knew what was to happen during the marshal's absence. You know how successfully he managed the job. It was my stepfather's fault that it did not succeed.

"My mother, down in New York, driven to the last extreme, had finally turned on him and demanded that he make restitution to Rosalie Gray, as we had come to know her. Of course, there was a scene and almost a catastrophe. He was so worried over the position she was taking, that he failed to carry out his part of the plans, which were to banish Rosalie forever from this country. You were to have been taken to Paris, dear, and kept forever in one of those awful sanitoriums. They are worse than the grave. In the meantime, the delay gave Mr. Bonner a chance to rescue you from the kidnapers.

"Shortly after reaching New York I quarrelled with Thomas Reddon, and my mother and I fled to California. He followed us and sought a reconciliation. I loathed him so much by this time, that I appealed to my mother. It was then that she told me this miserable story, and that is why we are in Tinkletown to-day. We learned in some way of the plot to kidnap you and to place you where you could not be found. The inhuman scheme of my stepfather and his adviser was to have my mother declared insane and confined in an asylum, where her truthful utterances could never be heard by the world, or if they were, as the ravings of a mad woman.

"The day that we reached New York my mother placed the documents and every particle of proof in her possession in the hands of the British Consul. The story was told to him and also to certain attorneys. A member of his firm visited my stepfather and confronted him with the charges. That very night Mr. Banks disappeared, leaving behind him a note, in which he said we should never see his face again. Tom Reddon has gone to Europe. My mother and I expect to sail this week for England, and I have come to ask Rosalie to accompany us. I want her to stand at last on the soil which knows her to be Rosalie Brace. The fortune which was mine last week is hers to-day. We are not poor, Rosalie dear, but we are not as rich as we were when we had all that belonged to you."



CHAPTER XXXVI

Anderson Crow's Resignation

Some days later Anderson Crow returned to Tinkletown from New York, where he had seen Rosalie Bonner and her husband off for England, accompanied by Mrs. Banks and Elsie, who had taken passage on the same steamer. He was attired in a brand-new suit of blue serge, a panama hat, and patent-leather shoes which hurt his feet. Moreover, he carried a new walking stick with a great gold head and there was a huge pearl scarf-pin in his necktie Besides all this, his hair and beard had been trimmed to perfection by a Holland House barber. Every morning his wife was obliged to run a flatiron over his trousers to perpetuate the crease. Altogether Anderson was a revelation not only to his family and to the town at large, but to himself as well. He fairly staggered every time he got a glimpse of himself in the shop windows.

All day long he strolled about the street, from store to store, or leaned imposingly against every post that presented itself conveniently. Naturally he was the talk of the town.

"Gee-mi-nently!" ejaculated Alf Reesling, catching sight of him late in the day. "Is that the president?"

"It's Anderson Crow," explained Blootch Peabody.

"Who's dead?" demanded Alf.

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Why, whose clothes is he wearin'?" pursued Alf, utterly overcome by the picture.

"You'd better not let him hear you say that," cautioned Isaac Porter. "He got 'em in New York. He says young Mr. Bonner give 'em to him fer a weddin' present. Rosalie give him a pearl dingus to wear in his cravat, an' derned ef he don't have to wear a collar all the time now. That lawyer Barnes give him the cane. Gee whiz! he looks like a king, don't he?"

At that moment Anderson approached the group in front of Lamson's store. He walked with a stateliness that seemed to signify pain in his lower extremities more than it did dignity higher up.

"How fer out do you reckon they are by this time, Blootch?" he asked earnestly.

"'Bout ten miles further than when you asked while ago," responded Blootch, consulting his watch.

"Well, that ought to get 'em to Liverpool sometime soon then. They took a powerful fast ship. Makes it in less 'n six days, they say. Let's see. They sailed day before yesterday. They must be out sight o' land by this time."

"Yes, unless they're passin' some islands," agreed Blootch.

"Thunderation! What air you talkin' about?" said Anderson scornfully. "Cuby an' Porty Rico's been passed long ago. Them islands ain't far from Boston. Don't you remember how skeered the Boston people were durin' the war with Spain? Feared the Spanish shells might go a little high an' smash up the town? Islands nothin'! They've got away out into deep water by this time, boys. 'y Gosh, I'm anxious about Rosalie. S'posin' that derned boat struck a rock er upset er somethin'! They never could swim ashore."

"Oh, there's no danger, Anderson," said Mr. Lamson. "Those boats are perfectly safe. I suppose they're going to telegraph you when they land."

"No, they're goin' to cable, Wick says. Doggone, I'm glad it's all settled. You don't know how hard I've worked all these years to find out who her parents was. Course I knowed they were foreigners all the time, but Rosalie never had no brogue, so you c'n see how I was threw off the track. She talked jest as good American as we do. I was mighty glad when I finally run Miss Banks to earth." The crowd was in no position to argue the point with him. "That Miss Banks is a fine girl, boys. She done the right thing. An' so did my Rosalie—I mean Lady Rosalie. She made Elsie keep some of the money. Mr. Barnes is goin' to England next week to help settle the matter for Lady Rosalie. He says she's got nearly a million dollars tied up some'eres. It's easy sailin', though, 'cause Mrs. Banks says so. Did you hear what Rosalie said when she got convinced about bein' an English lady?"

"No; what did she say?"

"She jest stuck up that derned little nose o' hern an' said: 'I am an American as long as I live.'"

"Hooray!" shouted Alf Reesling, throwing Isaac Porter's new hat into the air. The crowd joined in the cheering.

"Did I ever tell you how I knowed all along that it was a man who left Rosalie on the porch?" asked Anderson.

"Why, you allus told me it was a woman," said Alf. "You accused me of bein' her."

"Shucks! Woman nothin'! I knowed it was a man. Here's somethin' you don't know, Alf. I sized up the foot-prints on my front steps jest after she—I mean he—dropped the basket. The toes turned outward, plain as day, right there in the snow." He paused to let the statement settle in their puzzled brains. "Don't you know that one hunderd percent of the women turn their toes in when they go upstairs? To keep from hookin' into their skirts? Thunder, you oughter of thought of that, too!"

Some one had posted Anderson on this peculiarly feminine trait, and he was making the best of it. Incidentally, it may be said that every man in Tinkletown took personal observations in order to satisfy himself.

"Any one seen Pastor MacFarlane?" went on Anderson. "Wick Bonner give me a hunderd dollar bill to give him fer performin' the ceremony up to our house that night. G'way, Ed Higgins! I'm not goin' 'round showin' that bill to people. If robbers got onto the fact I have it, they'd probably try to steal it. I don't keer if you ain't seen that much money in one piece. That's none of my lookout. Say, are you comin' to the town meetin' to-night?"

They were all at the meeting of the town board that night. It was held, as usual, in Odd Fellows' Hall, above Peterson's dry-goods store, and there was not so much as standing room in the place when the clerk read the minutes of the last meeting. Word had gone forth that something unusual was to happen. It was not idle rumour, for soon after the session began, Anderson Crow arose to address the board.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice trembling with emotion, "I have come before you as I notified you I would. I hereby tender my resignation as marshal of Tinkletown, street commissioner and chief of the fire department—an' any other job I may have that has slipped my mind. I now suggest that you app'int Mr. Ed Higgins in my place. He has wanted the job fer some time, an' says it won't interfere with his business any more than it did with mine. I have worked hard all these years an' I feel that I ought to have a rest. Besides, it has got to be so that thieves an' other criminals won't visit Tinkletown on account o' me, an' I think the town is bein' held back considerable in that way. What's the use havin' a marshal an' a jail ef nobody comes here to commit crimes? They have to commit 'em in New York City er Chicago nowadays, jest because it's safer there than it is here. Look at this last case I had. Wasn't that arranged in New York? Well, it shouldn't be that way. Even the train robbers put up their job in New York. I feel that the best interests of the town would be served ef I resign an' give the criminals a chance. You all know Ed Higgins. He will ketch 'em if anybody kin. I move that he be app'inted."

The motion prevailed, as did the vote of thanks, which was vociferously called for in behalf of Anderson Crow.

"You honour me," said the ex-marshal, when the "ayes" died away. "I promise to help Marshal Higgins in ever' way possible. I'll tell him jest what to do in everything. I wish to say that I am not goin' out of the detective business, however. I'm goin' to open an agency of my own here. All sorts of detective business will be done at reasonable prices. I had these cards printed at the Banner office to-day, an' Mr. Squires is goin' to run an ad. fer me fer a year in the paper."

He proudly handed a card to the president of the board and then told the crowd that each person present could have one by applying to his son Roscoe, who would be waiting in the hallway after the meeting. The card read:

"Anderson Crow, Detective. All kinds of cases Taken and Satisfaction Guaranteed. Berth mysteries a Specialty."

Mrs. Bonner, upon hearing of his resignation the next day, just as she was leaving for Boston, drily remarked to the Congressman:

"I still maintain that Anderson Crow is utterly impossible."

No doubt the entire world, aside from the village of Tinkletown, agrees with her in that opinion.

THE END