as bad. Either way, Hezekiah Cragg is not entitled to our admiration,
to say the least. Let us admit that in a big city a man might lose
seventy thousand dollars in business ventures without exciting adverse
criticism except for a lack of judgment; but Old Swallowtail has never
left Cragg's Crossing, according to all reports, and I'm sure there is
no way for him to squander a fortune here."

"I think he must be a miser," said Mary Louise with conviction. "Ingua
once told me of seeing lots of money pass between him and Mr. Joselyn.
And--tell me, Josie--what is all his voluminous correspondence about?"

"I'm going to investigate that presently," replied her friend. "It
isn't quite in line yet but will come pretty soon. To-morrow I shall
call upon Old Swallowtail at his office."

"Shall you, really? And may I go with, you, Josie?"

"Not this time. You'd spoil my excuse, you see, for you are going to
discharge your sewing-girl, and your sewing-girl is going to apply to
Hezekiah Cragg for work. His granddaughter needs some sewing done, by
the looks of her wardrobe."

"Oh. Very well. But you will tell me what happens?"

"Of course."

"Once," said Mary Louise, "I proposed going myself to Mr. Cragg, to
intercede for Ingua, but the girl thought I would do more harm than
good. So I abandoned the idea."

"I think that was wise. I don't expect to get much out of the man
except an interview, with a chance to study him at close range. Also
I'm anxious to see what that mysterious office looks like."

Mary Louise regarded her friend admiringly.

"You're very brave, Josie," she said.

"Pooh! There's no danger. One of the first things father taught me
about the detective business was that all men belong to one tribe, and
the criminal is inevitably a coward at heart. Old Swallowtail may be
afraid of _me,_ before I'm through with this case, but whether he
proves guilty or innocent I shall never fear him a particle."

"Have you any theory, as yet, Josie?"

"No. Theories are dangerous things and never should be indulged in
until backed by facts."

"But do not theories often lead to facts? And how about those 'O'Gorman
theories' you mentioned, which you were eager to test?"

"Those are mere theories of investigation--methods to be pursued in
certain situations. I believe I shall be able to test some of them in
this case. My plan is to find out all I can about everyone and
everything, and then marshal my facts against the question involved. If
there is no answer, I've got to learn more. If I can't learn more, then
the whole thing becomes mere guesswork--in other words, theory--more
likely to be wrong than right."

Mary Louise seldom argued with Josie's decisions. When, the next
morning, her friend started for the village to call upon Old
Swallowtail, she pressed her hand and wished her good luck. Josie
departed in her plain gingham dress, shoes run over at the heels, hair
untidy and uncovered by hat or hood--a general aspect of slovenly
servitude.

Mr. Cragg was never an early riser. He breakfasted at eight o'clock and
at half past eight stalked with stiff dignity to town and entered his
office without deigning to recognize any villagers he might meet. Josie
was aware of this habit. She timed her visit for half-past ten.

Unnoticed she passed through the village street and crept up the stairs
at the end of the store building. Before the door marked "H. Cragg,
Real Estate" she paused to listen. No sound came from within, but
farther along the passage she heard the dull rumble of Miss Huckins'
sewing machine.

For once Josie hesitated, but realizing that hesitation meant weakness
on such an errand she boldly thrust out a hand and attempted to turn
the doorknob.

CHAPTER XIII
BLUFF AND REBUFF

The door was locked. Immediately Josie pounded upon it with her
knuckles and a voice demanded:

"Who is there?"

Instead of replying, Josie knocked again, and suddenly the door was
opened and Old Swallowtail stood before her.

"I--I beg your pardon," said she diffidently; "are you the real estate
man?"

"Yes," he replied, standing quietly in the doorway.

"Then you're the man I want to see," she asserted and took a step
forward. But he did not move an inch from his position and his eyes
were fixed steadfastly on her face.

"I have nothing to sell, at present," he remarked.

"But I want to give you something to sell," she retorted impatiently,
summoning her wits to meet the occasion. "Let me in, please. Or do you
transact all your business in the hallway?"

Somewhat to her surprise he stepped back and held the door for her to
enter. Josie promptly walked in and sat down near a round table, one
comprehensive glance fixing in her mind the entire contents of the
small room.

There was one window, dim and unwashed, facing the street. It had a
thick shade, now raised. Originally the room had been square, and
rather crudely plastered and wallpapered, but a wooden partition had
afterward been erected to cut the room into two, so that the portion
she had entered was long and narrow. Its sole furniture consisted of
the round table, quite bare, two or three wooden-bottomed chairs, and
against one wall a rack filled with books. During the interview she
noted that these books were mostly directories of the inhabitants of
various prominent cities in the United States, and such a collection
astonished her and aroused her curiosity.

Just at present, however, the partition proved the most interesting
thing she observed, for beyond it must be another room which was
doubtless the particular sanctum of Old Swallowtail and to which she
scarcely expected to gain admittance. The door was closed. It was stout
and solid and was fitted with both an ordinary door-lock and a hasp and
padlock, the latter now hanging on a nail beside the door.

This much Josie's sharp eyes saw in her first glance, but immediately
her attention was demanded by Mr. Cragg, who took a seat opposite her
and said in a quiet, well modulated voice: "Now, my girl, state your
business." She had planned to tell him how she had come to town to sew
for Mary Louise Burrows, how she had now finished her work but was so
charmed with Cragg's Crossing that she did not care to leave it during
the hot weather to return to the stuffy city. Therefore, she intended
to add, if he would let her make some new dresses for Ingua, she would
work for half her regular wages. Her dress as a sewing-girl would carry
out this deception and the bait of small wages ought to interest the
old man. But this clever plan had suddenly gone glimmering, for in
order to gain admittance to the office and secure an interview with Old
Swallowtail she had inadvertently stated that she had some real estate
to dispose of. So sudden a change of base required the girl to think
quickly in order to formulate a new argument that would hold his
attention.

To gain time she said, slowly:

"My name is Josie Jessup. I'm a sewing-girl by profession."

"Yes, I know," he replied.

"I've been here ten days or so, working for Miss Burrows."

"I have seen you here," said Mr. Cragg.

She wondered how he knew so much, as he had never seemed to favor her
with even a glance when by chance they met in the street. But perhaps
Ingua had told him.

"I like Cragg's Crossing," continued Josie, assuming a confidential
tone, "and I've made up my mind I'd like to live here. There ought to
be plenty of work sewing for the farmers' wives, outside of what Miss
Huckins does, and it don't cost much to live in a small town. In the
city I own a little house and lot left to me by my uncle on my mother's
side, and I've decided to trade it for some place here. Don't you know,
sir, of someone who'd like to move to the city, and will be glad to
make the exchange?"

"I know of no such person," he replied coldly.

"But you will make inquiries?"

"It would be useless. I am very busy to-day, so if you will excuse
me--"

He rose and bowed.

Josie was disappointed. She decided to revert to her first proposition.

"Doesn't your granddaughter need some sewing done, sir?" she asked,
with a frank look from her innocent blue eyes.

He stood still, silently studying her face. With one hand he rubbed his
chin gently, as if in thought. Then he said:

"We cannot afford to hire our sewing done, but I thank you for the
offer. Good morning, Miss--Jessup."

Walking to the door he held it open and bowed gravely as she walked
out. Next moment she heard the key click as it turned in the lock.

Josie, feeling a sense of failure, slowly went down the stairs, entered
the store and perched herself upon the sugar-barrel. Old Sol was
waiting on a farmer's wife and only gave the girl a glance.

Josie reflected on her interview with Mr. Cragg while it was fresh in
her mind. He was no crude, uneducated country bumpkin, despite his odd
ways and peculiar dress. Indeed, the man had astonished her by his
courtesy, his correct method of speech, his perfect self-assurance. Her
visit was calculated to annoy him and to arouse his impatience. After
Ingua's report of him she expected he would become scornful or
sarcastic or even exhibit violent anger; yet there had been nothing
objectionable in his manner or words. Still, he had dismissed her as
abruptly as possible and was not eager to grasp an opportunity to
exchange real estate.

"That isn't his business at all," she told herself. "It's merely a
blind, although he actually did rent the Kenton Place to Colonel
Hathaway...I wonder what he does in that office all day. In the inner
room, of course. That is his real workshop...He's quite gentlemanly. He
has a certain amount of breeding, which Ingua wholly lacks....He must
realize what a crude and uncultured little thing his granddaughter is.
Then why hasn't he tried to train her differently?...Really, he quite
awed me with his stately, composed manner. No one would expect that
sort of man to be a murderer. But--there! haven't I been warned that
the educated gentleman is the worst type of criminal, and the most
difficult to detect?"

Sol's customer went away and the old man approached the barrel.

"Well," he said, "wanter buy anything to-day?"

"No," said Josie pleasantly, "this is only a social call. I've just
come from Old Swallow-tail's office and thought a word with you would
cheer me up."

"You! You be'n to Ol' Swallertail's office! Sakes alive, gal, I
wouldn't dare do that myself."

"Why not?"

"He goes crazy when he gits mad."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Ev'rybody here knows it, from the three-year-olds up. What did ye go
to him for?"

"A little matter of business."

"An' he slammed the door in yer face?"

"No, indeed."

"That's funny," said old Sol, rubbing his forehead in a perplexed way.

"He was very decent to me," continued Josie. "Acted like a gentleman.
Talked as if he'd been to school, you know."

"School? Well, I should say he had!" exclaimed the storekeeper. "Ol'
Swallertail's the most eddicated man in these 'ere parts, I guess. Ol'
Nick Cragg, his daddy, wanted for him to be a preacher--or a priest,
most likely--an' when he was a boy his ol' man paid good money to hev
him eddicated at a the--at a theo--at a collidge. But Hezekiah wa'n't
over-religious, an' 'lowed he didn't hev no call to preach; so that's
all the good the eddication ever done him."

"_You've_ never felt the need of an education, have you?" asked the
girl, artlessly.

"Me? Well, I ain't sayin' as I got no eddication, though I don't class
myself in book-l'arnin' with Ol' Swallertail. Three winters I went to
school, an' once I helped whip the school-teacher. Tain't ev'ry one has
got _that_ record. But eddication means more'n books; it means keepin'
yer eyes open an' gitt'n' onter the tricks o' yer trade. Ev'ry time I
git swindled, I've l'arned somethin', an' if I'd started this store in
New York instid o' Cragg's Crossin', they might be runnin' me fer
president by this time."

"But what could Cragg's Crossing have done without you?" inquired
Josie. "It seems to me you're needed here."

"Well, that's worth thinkin' on," admitted the storekeeper. "And as for
Old Swallowtail, he may have learned some tricks of his trade too. But
I don't know what his trade is."

"Nobody knows that. I don't b'lieve that business o' his'n is a trade
at all; I'll bet it's a steal, whatever its other name happens to be."

"But he doesn't prosper."

"No; he ain't got much t' show fer all these years. Folks used to think
he'd got money saved from the sale of his land, till Ned Joselyn come
here an' dallied with Ol' Swallertail's savin's an' then took to the
woods. It's gener'ly b'lieved that what Cragg had once Ned's got now;
but it don't matter much. Cragg hain't got long ter live an' his feed
don't cost him an' his little gal much more'n it costs to feed my cat."

There was no further information to be gleaned from Sol Jerrems, so
Josie walked home.

CHAPTER XIV
MIDNIGHT VIGILS

"Well, how is our girl detective progressing in her discovery of crime
and criminals?" asked Colonel Hathaway that evening, as they sat in the
living-room after dinner.

"Don't call me a girl detective, please," pleaded Josie O'Gorman. "I'm
only an apprentice at the trade, Colonel, and I have never realized
more than I do at this moment the fact that I've considerable to learn
before I may claim membership with the profession."

"Then you're finding your present trail a difficult one to follow?"

"I believe my stupidity is making it difficult," admitted Josie, with a
sigh. "Father would scold me soundly if he knew how foolishly I behaved
to-day. There was every opportunity of my forcing a clew by calling
unexpectedly on Mr. Cragg at his office, but he defeated my purpose so
easily that now I'm wondering if he suspects who I am, and why I'm
here. He couldn't have been more cautious."

"He could scarcely suspect that," said the Colonel, musingly. "But I've
noticed that these simple country people are chary of confiding in
strangers."

"Ah, if Mr. Cragg were only that--a simple, unlettered countryman, as I
thought him--I should know how to win his confidence. But, do you know,
sir, he is well educated and intelligent. Once he studied for the
priesthood or ministry, attending a theological college."

"Indeed!"

"My informant, the village authority--who is Sol Jerrems the
storekeeper--says he objected to becoming a priest at the last because
he had no leaning that way. My own opinion is that he feared his
ungovernable temper would lead to his undoing. I am positive that his
hysterical fury, when aroused, has gotten him into trouble many times,
even in this patient community."

"That's it," said Mary Louise with conviction; "his temper has often
made him cruel to poor Ingua, and perhaps his temper caused unfortunate
Ned Joselyn to disappear."

"Have you discovered anything more than you have told me?" she asked.

"Not a thing," replied Mary Louise. "I'm waiting for _you_ to make
discoveries, Josie."

"A puzzle that is readily solved," remarked the Colonel, picking up his
book, "is of little interest. The obstacles you are meeting, Josie,
incline me to believe you girls have unearthed a real mystery. It is
not a mystery of the moment, however, so take your time to fathom it.
The summer is young yet."

Josie went to her room early, saying she was tired, but as soon as she
was alone and free she slipped on a jacket and stealthily left the
house. Down the driveway she crept like a shadow, out through the
gates, over the bridge, and then she turned down the pathway leading to
Old Swallowtail's cottage.

"The stepping-stones are a nearer route," she reflected, "but I don't
care to tackle them in the dark."

The cottage contained but three rooms. The larger one downstairs was a
combination kitchen and dining room. A small wing, built upon one side,
was used by Mr. Cragg for his private apartment, but its only outlet
was through the main room. At the back was a lean-to shed, in which was
built a narrow flight of stairs leading to a little room in the attic,
where Ingua slept. Josie knew the plan of the house perfectly, having
often visited Ingua during the day when her grandfather was absent and
helped her sweep and make the beds and wash the dishes.

To-night Josie moved noiselessly around the building, satisfied herself
that Ingua was asleep and that Mr. Cragg was still awake, and then
strove to peer through the shuttered window to discover what the old
man was doing.

She found this impossible. Although the weather was warm the window was
tightly shut and a thick curtain was drawn across it.

Josie slipped over to the river bank and in the shadow of a tree sat
herself down to watch and wait with such patience as she could muster.
It was half past nine o'clock, and Ingua had told her that when her
grandfather was wakeful, and indulged in his long walks, he usually
left the house between ten o'clock and midnight--seldom earlier and
never later. He would go to bed, the child said, and finding he could
not sleep, would again dress and go out into the night, only to return
at early morning.

Josie doubted that he ever undressed on such occasions, knowing, as he
no doubt did, perfectly well what his program for the night would be.
She had decided that the nocturnal excursions were not due to insomnia
but were carefully planned to avoid possible observation. When all the
countryside was wrapped in slumber the old gentleman stole from his
cottage and went--where? Doubtless to some secret place that had an
important bearing on his life and occupation. It would be worth while,
Josie believed, to discover the object of these midnight excursions.
Ingua claimed that her grandfather's periods of wakeful walking were
irregular; sometimes he would be gone night after night, and then for
weeks he would remain at home and sleep like other folks.

So Josie was not surprised when old Swallowtail's light was
extinguished shortly after ten o'clock and from then until midnight he
had not left the house. Evidently this was not one of his "wakeful"
periods. The girl's eyes, during this time, never left the door of the
cottage. The path to the bridge passed her scarcely five yards distant.
Therefore, as Hezekiah Cragg had not appeared, he was doubtless
sleeping the sleep of the just--or the unjust, for all sorts and
conditions of men indulge in sleep.

Josie waited until nearly one o'clock. Then she went home, let herself
in by a side door to which she had taken the key, and in a few minutes
was as sound asleep as Old Swallowtail ought to be.

For three nights in succession the girl maintained this vigil, with no
result whatever. It was wearisome work and she began to tire of it. On
the fourth day, as she was "visiting" with Ingua, she asked:

"Has your grandfather had any sleepless nights lately?"

"I don't know," was the reply. "But he ain't walked any, as he
sometimes does, for I hain't heard him go out."

"Do you always hear him?"

"P'r'aps not always, but most times."

"And does he walk more than one night?" inquired Josie.

"When he takes them fits, they lasts for a week or more," asserted
Ingua. "Then, for a long time, he sleeps quiet."

"Will you let me know, the next time he takes to walking?"

"Why?" asked the child, suspiciously.

"It's a curious habit," Josie explained, "and I'd like to know what he
does during all those hours of the night."

"He walks," declared Ingua; "and, if he does anything else, it's his
own business."

"I've wondered," said Josie impressively, "if he doesn't visit some
hidden grave during those midnight rambles."

Ingua shuddered.

"I wish ye wouldn't talk like that," she whispered. "It gives me the
creeps."

"Wouldn't you like to know the truth of all this mystery, Ingua?"

"Sometimes I would, an' sometimes I wouldn't. If the truth leaked out,
mebbe Gran'dad would git inter a lot o' trouble. I don't want that,
Josie. I ain't no cause to love Gran'dad, but he's a Cragg an' I'm a
Cragg, an' no Cragg ever went back on the fambly."

It seemed unwise to urge the child further to betray her grandfather,
yet for Ingua's sake, if for no other reason, Josie was determined to
uncover the hidden life of Hezekiah Cragg.

The following night she watched again at her station by the river bank,
and again the midnight hour struck and the old man had not left his
cottage. His light was extinguished at eleven o'clock. At twelve-thirty
Josie rose from the shadow of the tree and slowly walked to the bridge.
There, instead of going home, she turned in the direction of the town.

In the sky were a few stars and the slim crescent of a new moon,
affording sufficient light to guide her steps. Crickets chirped and
frogs in the marshes sang their hoarse love songs, but otherwise an
intense stillness pervaded the countryside. You must not consider Josie
O'Gorman an especially brave girl, for she had no thought of fear in
such solitary wanderings. Although but seventeen years of age, she had
been reared from early childhood in an atmosphere of intrigue and
mystery, for her detective father had been accustomed to argue his
cases and their perplexities with his only child and for hours at a
time he would instruct her in all the details of his profession. It was
O'Gorman's ambition that his daughter might become a highly proficient
female detective.

"There are so many cases where a woman is better than a man," he would
say, "and there is such a lack of competent women in this important and
fascinating profession, that I am promoting the interests of both my
daughter and the public safety by training Josie to become a good
detective."

And the girl, having been her father's confidant since she was able to
walk and talk, became saturated with detective lore and only needed
practical experience and more mature judgment fully to justify
O'Gorman's ambition for her.

However, the shrewd old secret service officer well knew that the girl
was not yet ready to be launched into active service. The experience
she needed was only to be gained in just such odd private cases as the
one on which she was now engaged, so he was glad to let her come to
Cragg's Crossing, and Josie was glad to be there. She was only content
when "working," and however the Cragg mystery developed or resulted,
her efforts to solve it were sure to sharpen her wits and add to her
practical knowledge of her future craft.

When she reached the town she found it absolutely deserted. Not a light
shone anywhere; no watchman was employed; the denizens of Cragg's
Crossing were all in bed and reveling in dreamland.

Josie sat on the bottom stair of the flight leading to the store and
removed her shoes. Upstairs the family of Sol Jerrems and Miss Huckins
the dressmaker were sleeping and must not be disturbed. The girl made
no sound as she mounted the stairs and softly stole to the door of H.
Cragg's real estate office. Here it was dark as could be, but Josie
drew some skeleton keys from her pocket and slid them, one by one, into
the lock. The fourth key fitted; she opened the door silently and
having entered the room drew the door shut behind her.

The thick shade was drawn over the window. It was as black here as it
was in the hallway. Josie flashed a small searchlight on the door of
the connecting room and saw that it was not only locked in the ordinary
manner but that the padlock she had noted on her former visit to the
room was now inserted in the hasp and formed an additional security
against intrusion.

While her electric spotlight played upon this padlock she bent over and
examined it swiftly but with care.

"A Yale lock," she muttered. "It can't be picked, but it will delay me
for only a few minutes."

Then from her pocket she brought out a small steel hack-saw, and as she
could not work the saw and hold the flashlight at the same time she
went to the window and removed the heavy shade. The light that now came
into the room was dim, but sufficient for her purpose. Returning to the
door of the mysterious inner room, the contents of which she had
determined to investigate, she seized the padlock firmly with one hand
while with the other she began to saw through the steel loop that
passed through the hasp.

The sound made by the saw was so slight that it did not worry her, but
another sound, of an entirely different character and coming from the
hallway, caused her to pause and glance over her shoulder.

Slowly the outer door opened and a form appeared in the doorway. It was
a mere shadow, at first, but it deliberately advanced to the table,
struck a match and lighted a small kerosene lamp.

She was face to face with Old Swallowtail.

CHAPTER XV
"OLD SWALLOWTAIL"

Josie was so astonished that she still bent over the lock, motionless,
saw in hand. In the instant she made a mental review of her proceedings
and satisfied herself that she had been guilty of no professional
blunder. The inopportune appearance of Mr. Cragg must be attributed to
a blind chance--to fate. So the first wave of humiliation that swept
over her receded as she gathered her wits to combat this unexpected
situation.

Mr. Cragg stood by the table looking at her. He was very calm. The
discovery of the girl had not aroused that violence of temper for which
the old man was noted. Josie straightened up, slipped the saw in her
pocket and faced him unflinchingly.

"Won't you sit down?" he said, pointing to a chair beside her. "I would
like to know why you have undertaken to rob me."

Josie sat down, her heart bounding with joy. If he mistook her for a
thief all was not lost and she would not have to write "finis" as yet
to this important case. But she made no answer to his remark; she
merely stared at him in a dull, emotionless way that was cleverly
assumed.

"I suppose," he continued, "you have been told I am rich--a miser--and
perhaps you imagine I keep my wealth in that little room, because I
have taken pains to secure it from intrusion by prying meddlers. I
suspected you, my girl, when you came to see me the other day. Your
errand was palpably invented. You wanted to get the lay of the room, in
preparation for this night's work. But who told you I was worthy of
being robbed? Was it Ingua?"

"No," came a surly reply. "She won't mention you to me."

"Very good. But the neighbors--the busy-bodies around here? Perhaps old
Sol Jerrems has gossiped of my supposed hoard. Is it not so?"

Josie dropped her eyes as if confused but remained silent. The old man
seemed to regard her as a curiosity, for his cold gray eyes examined
her person with the same expression with which he might have regarded a
caged monkey.

"Then you do not wish to confess?"

"What's the use?" she demanded with a burst of impatience. "Haven't you
caught me at the job?"

He continued to eye her, reflectively.

"The cities breed felons," he remarked. "It is a pity so young a girl
should have chosen so dangerous and disastrous a career. It is
inevitably disastrous. How did it happen that Colonel Hathaway allowed
you to impose on him?"

"I do sewing," she said doggedly.

"In order to gain entrance to a household, I suppose. But Hathaway is
wealthy. Why did you not undertake to rob him, instead of me?"

"One at a time," said Josie, with a short laugh.

"Oh, I understand. You expected to make the small pick-ups and then
land the grand coup. The answer is simple, after all. But," he added,
his voice growing stern and menacing for the first time, "I do not
intend to be robbed, my girl. Fleece Hathaway if you can; it is none of
my business; but you must not pry into my personal affairs or rifle my
poor rooms. Do you understand me?"

"I--I think so, sir."

"Avoid me, hereafter. Keep out of my path. The least interference from
you, in any way, will oblige me to turn you over to the police."

"You'll let me go, now?"

He glanced at her, frowning.

"I am too much occupied to prosecute you--unless you annoy me further.
Perhaps you have this night learned a lesson that will induce you to
abandon such desperate, criminal ventures."

Josie stood up.

"I wish I knew how you managed to catch me," she said, with a sigh.

"You were watching my house to-night, waiting until I was safely in bed
before coming here. I happened to leave my room for a little air, and
going out my back door I passed around the house and stood at the
corner, in deep shade. My eyes were good enough to distinguish a form
lurking under the tree by the river bank. I went in, put out my light,
and returned to my former position. You watched the house and I watched
you. You are not very clever, for all your slyness. You will never be
clever enough to become a good thief--meaning a successful thief. After
a half hour I saw you rise and take the path to the village. I followed
you. Do you understand now? God has protected the just and humbled the
wicked."

That final sentence surprised the girl. Coming from his lips, it
shocked her. In his former speech he had not denounced her crime, but
only her indiscretion and the folly of her attempt. Suddenly he
referred to God as his protector, asserting his personal uprightness as
warrant for Divine protection; and, singularly enough, his tone was
sincere.

Josie hesitated whether to go or not, for Old Swallowtail seemed in a
talkative mood and she had already discovered a new angle to his
character. By way of diversion she began to cry.

"I--I know I'm wicked," she sobbed; "it's wrong to steal; I know it is.
But I--I--need the money, and you've got lots of it; and--and--I
thought you must be just as wicked as I am!"

His expression changed to one of grim irony.

"Yes," said he, "by common report I am guilty of every sin in the
calendar. Do you know why?"

"No; of course I don't!" she answered, softening her sobs to hear more
clearly.

"Years ago, when I was a young man, I stabbed a fellow-student in the
neck--a dreadful wound--because he taunted me about my mode of dress. I
was wearing the only clothes my eccentric father would provide me with.
I am wearing the same style of costume yet, as penance for that
dastardly act--caused by an ungovernable temper with which I have been
cursed from my birth. I would have entered the service of God had it
not been for that temper. I am unable to control it, except by avoiding
undue contact with my fellow men. That is why. I am living here, a
recluse, when I should be taking an active part in the world's work."

He spoke musingly, as if to himself more than to the girl who hung on
each word with eager interest. No one had ever told her as much of Old
Swallowtail as he was now telling her of himself. She wondered why he
was so confidential. Was it because she seemed dull and stupid? Because
she was a stranger who was likely to decamp instantly when he let her
go? Or was the retrospective mood due to the hour and the unwonted
situation? She waited, scarce breathing lest she lose a word.

"The poor fellow whom I stabbed lived miserably for twenty years
afterward," he went on, "and I supported him and his family during that
time, for his life had been ruined by my act. Later in life and here at
the Crossing, people saw me kill a balky horse in a wild rage, and they
have been afraid of me ever since. Even more recently I--"

He suddenly paused, remembering where he was and to whom he was
speaking. The girl's face was perfectly blank when he shot a shrewd
glance at it. Her look seemed to relieve his embarrassment.

"However," said he in a different tone, "I am not so black as I'm
painted."

"I don't think you treat poor Ingua quite right," remarked Josie.

"Eh? Why not?"

"You neglect her; you don't give her enough to eat; she hasn't a dress
fit for a ragamuffin to wear. And she's your granddaughter."

He drew in a long breath, staring hard.

"Has she been complaining?"

"Not to me," said Josie; "but she doesn't need to. Haven't I eyes?
Doesn't everyone say it's a shame to treat the poor child the way you
do? My personal opinion is that you're a poor excuse for a
grandfather," she added, with more spirit than she had yet exhibited.

He sat silent a long time, looking at the lamp. His face was hard; his
long, slim fingers twitched as if longing to throttle someone; but he
positively ignored Josie's presence. She believed he was struggling to
subdue what Ingua called "the devils," and would not have been
surprised had-he broken all bounds and tried to do her an injury.

"Go!" he said at last, still without looking at her. "Go, and remember
that I will not forgive twice."

She thought it best to obey. Very softly she left the room, and as she
passed out he was still staring at the flame of the lamp and
alternately clenching and unclenching his talon-like fingers.

CHAPTER XVI
INGUA'S NEW DRESS

"Well," said Mary Louise, when Josie had related to her friend the
story next morning, "what do you think of Old Swallowtail now?"

"About the same as before. I'm gradually accumulating facts to account
for the old man's strange actions, but I'm not ready to submit them for
criticism just yet. The plot is still a bit ragged and I want to mend
the holes before I spread it out before you."

"Do you think he suspects who you are?"

"No; he thinks I'm a waif from the city with a penchant for burglary.
He expects me to rob you, presently, and then run away. I'm so unlikely
to cross his path again that he talked with unusual frankness to me--or
_at_ me, if you prefer to put it that way. All I gained last night was
the knowledge that he's afraid of himself, that his temper cost him a
career in the world and obliged him to live in seclusion and that he
has a secret which he doesn't intend any red-headed girl to stumble on
accidentally."

"And you think he was angry when you accused him of neglecting Ingua?"

"I'm sure he was. It made him more furious than my attempt to saw his
padlock. Come, let's run over and see Ingua now. I want to ask how her
grandfather treated her this morning."

They walked through the grounds, crossed the river on the
stepping-stones and found Ingua just finishing her morning's work. The
child greeted them eagerly.

"I'm glad you come," she said, "for I was meanin' to run over to your
place pretty soon. What d'ye think hes happened? Las' night, in the
middle o' the night--or p'r'aps nearer mornin'--Gran'dad begun to slam
things aroun'. The smashin' of tables an' chairs woke me up, but I
didn't dare go down to see what was the matter. He tumbled ev'rything
'round in the kitchen an' then went inter his own room an' made the fur
fly there. I knew he were in one o' his tantrums an' that he'd be sorry
if he broke things, but it wasn't no time to interfere. When the rumpus
stopped I went to sleep ag'in, but I got up early an' had his breakfas'
all ready when he come from his room. I'd picked up all the stuff he'd
scattered an' mended a broken chair, an' things didn't look so bad.

"Well, Ol' Swallertail jes' looked aroun' the room an' then at me an'
sot down to eat. 'Ingua,' he says pretty soon,' you need a new dress.'
Say, girls, I near fell over backwards! 'Go down to Sol Jerrems,' says
he, 'an' pick out the goods, an' I'll pay for it. I'll stop in this
mornin' an' tell Sol to let ye have it. An',' says he, lookin' at me
ruther queer, 'ye might ask that redheaded sewin'-girl that's stay in'
at the Hathaways' to make it up fer ye. I don't think she'll ask ye a
cent fer the work.'

"'Gran'dad,' says I, 'would ye hev a Cragg accep' charity, even to the
makin' of a dress?'

"' No,' says he; 'the girl owes me somethin' an' I guess she'll be glad
to square the account.'

"Then he goes away to town an' I've be'n nervous an' flustered ever
since. I can't make it out, I can't. Do you owe him anything, Josie?"

"Yes," said Josie with a laugh, "I believe I do. You shall have the
dress, Ingua--all made up--and I'll go down with you and help pick out
the goods."

"So will I!" exclaimed Mary Louise, highly delighted.

"And we will have Miss Huckins cut and fit it," continued Josie. "I'm
not much good at that thing, Ingua, so we will have a real dressmaker
and I'll pay her and charge it up to what I owe your grandfather."

The little girl seemed puzzled.

"How'd ye happen to owe him anything, Josie?" she asked.

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Not a word."

"Then he expects it to remain a secret, and you mustn't urge me to
tell. I'm pretty good at keeping secrets, Ingua. Aren't you glad of
that?"

They trooped away to town, presently, all in high spirits, and
purchased the dress and trimmings at the store. Old Sol was so
astonished at this transaction that he assailed the three girls with a
thousand questions, to none of which did he receive a satisfactory
reply.

"He didn't put no limit on the deal," said the storekeeper. "He jus'
said: 'Whatever the gal picks out, charge it to me an' I'll pay the
bill.' Looks like Ol' Swallertail hed gone plumb crazy, don't it?"

Then they went upstairs to Miss Huckins, who was likewise thrilled with
excitement at the startling event of Ingua's having a new dress. Mary
Louise and Josie helped plan the dress, which was to be a simple and
practical affair, after all, and the dressmaker measured the child
carefully and promised her a fitting the very next day.

"I don't quite understan'," remarked Ingua, as they walked home after
this impressive ceremony, "why you don't make the dress yourself,
Josie, an' save yer money. You're a dressmaker, ye say."

"I'm a sewing-girl," replied Josie calmly, "but I've promised Mary
Louise to sew for no one but her while I'm here, and I'm too lazy to
sew much, anyway. I'm having a sort of vacation, you know."

"Josie is my friend," explained Mary Louise, "and I won't let her sew
at all, if I can help it. I want her to be just my companion and have a
nice visit before she goes back to the city."

But when the two girls were alone Josie said to Mary Louise:

"Old Cragg isn't so stony-hearted, after all. Just my suggestion last
night that Ingua was being neglected has resulted in the new dress."

"He threw things, though, before he made up his mind to be generous,"
observed Mary Louise. "But this proves that the old man isn't so very
poor. He must have a little money, Josie."

Josie nodded her head absently. She was trying hard to understand Mr.
Cragg's character, and so far it baffled her. He had frankly admitted
his ungovernable temper and had deplored it. Also he had refrained from
having Josie arrested for burglary because he was "too occupied to
prosecute her." Occupied? Occupied with what? Surely not the real
estate business. She believed the true reason for her escape was that
he dreaded prominence. Old Swallowtail did not wish to become mixed up
with police courts any more than he could help. This very occurrence
made her doubt him more than ever.

CHAPTER XVII
A CLEW AT LAST

That night Josie resumed her watch of Cragg's cottage. She did not
trust to the shadow of the tree to conceal her but hid herself under
the bank of the river, among the dry stones, allowing only her head to
project above the embankment and selecting a place where she could peer
through some low bushes.

She suspected that the excitement of the previous night might render
the old man nervous and wakeful and send him out on one of his midnight
prowls. This suspicion seemed justified when, at eleven-thirty, his
light went out and a few minutes later he turned the corner of the
house and appeared in the path.

He did not seem nervous, however. With hands clasped behind his back
and head bowed, he leisurely paced the path to the bridge, without
hesitation crossed the river and proceeded along the road in a
direction opposite to the village.

Josie was following, keeping herself concealed with utmost care. She
remembered that his eyes were sharp in penetrating shadows.

He kept along the main country road for a time and then turned to the
right and followed an intersecting road. Half a mile in this direction
brought him to a lane running between two farm tracts but which was so
little used that grass and weeds had nearly obliterated all traces of
wagon-wheels.

By this time Josie's eyes were so accustomed to the dim moonlight that
she could see distinctly some distance ahead of her. The sky was clear;
there was just enough wind to rustle the leaves of the trees. Now and
then in some farmyard a cock would crow or a dog bark, but no other
sounds broke the stillness of the night.

The girl knew now where Old Swallowtail was bound. At the end of this
lane lay his five acres of stones, and he was about to visit it. The
fact gave her a queer little thrill of the heart, for a dozen strange
fancies crossed her mind in rapid succession. If he had really killed
Ned Joselyn, it was probable he had buried the man in this neglected
place, amongst the rubble of stones. Josie had inspected every foot of
ground on the Kenton Place and satisfied herself no grave had been dug
there. Indeed, at the time of Joselyn's "disappearance" the ground had
been frozen so hard that the old man could not have dug a grave.
Perhaps after a night or two he had dragged the corpse here and covered
it with stones. It would be a safe hiding-place.

And now regret for his act drove the murderer here night after night to
watch over the secret grave.

Or, granting that the supposed crime had not been committed, might not
Mr. Cragg have discovered some sort of mineral wealth in his
stone-yard, which would account for his paying taxes on the place and
visiting it so often? Or did he simply love the solitude of the dreary
waste where, safe from prying eyes, he could sit among the rocky
boulders and commune with himself beneath the moonlit sky?

Such conjectures as these occupied the girl's mind while she stealthily
"shadowed" the old man along the lane. Never once did he look behind
him, although she was prepared to dissolve from view instantly, had he
done so. And at last the end of the lane was reached and he climbed the
rail fence which separated it from the valley of stones.

Josie saw him suddenly pause, motionless, as he clung to the rails. She
guessed from his attitude that he was staring straight ahead of him at
something that had surprised him. A full minute he remained thus before
he let himself down on the other side and disappeared from view.

The girl ran lightly forward and, crouching low, peered through the
bars of the fence. Half a dozen paces distant the old man stood among
the stones in a silent paroxysm of rage. He waved his long arms in the
air, anon clenching his fists and shaking them at some object beyond
him. His frail old body fluttered back and forth, right and left, as if
he were doing a weird dance among the rocks. The violence of his
emotion was something terrible to witness and fairly startled the girl.
Had he screamed, or sobbed, or shrieked, or moaned, the scene would
have been more bearable, but such excess of silent, intense rage, made
her afraid for the first time in her life.

She wanted to run away. At one time she actually turned to fly; but
then common sense came to her rescue and she resolved to stay and
discover what had affected Old Swallowtail so strongly. From her
present position she could see nothing more than a vista of tumbled
stones, but rising until her head projected above the topmost rail she
presently saw, far across the valley, an automobile, standing
silhouetted against the gray background.

The machine was at present vacant. It had been driven in from the other
side of the valley, where doubtless there were other lanes
corresponding with the one she was in. However, there was no fence on
that side to separate the lane from the waste tract, so the machine had
been driven as close as possible to the edge of the stones.

Although the automobile was deserted, that was evidently the object
which had aroused old Cragg's fury, the object at which he was even yet
shaking his clenched fists. Josie wondered and watched. Gradually the
paroxysm of wrath diminished. Presently the old man stood as motionless
as the stones about him. Five minutes, perhaps, he remained thus,
controlling himself by a mighty effort, regaining his capacity to think
and reason. Then, to the girl's amazement, he tottered toward a large,
shelf-like slab of stone and kneeling down, as before an altar, he
bared his head, raised his arms on high and began to pray.

There was no mistaking this attitude. Old Swallowtail was calling on
God to support him in this hour of trial. Josie felt something
clutching at her heart. Nothing could be more impressive than this
scene--this silent but earnest appeal to the Most High by the man whom
she suspected of murder--of crimes even more terrible. She could see
his eyes, pleading and sincere, turned upward; could see his gray hair
flutter in the breeze; could see his lips move, though they uttered no
sound. And after he had poured out his heart to his Maker he extended
his arms upon the slab, rested his head upon them and again became
motionless.

The girl waited. She was sorely troubled, surprised, even humiliated at
being the witness of this extraordinary and varied display of emotion.
She felt a sense of intrusion that was almost unjustifiable, even in a
detective. What right had anyone to spy upon a communion between God
and man?

He rose, at length, rose and walked uncertainly forward, stumbling
among the ragged rocks. He made for the far hillside that was cluttered
with huge fragments of stone, some weighing many tons and all tumbled
helter-skelter as if aimlessly tossed there by some giant hand. And
when he reached the place he threaded his way between several great
boulders and suddenly disappeared.

Josie hesitated a moment what to do, yet instinct urged her to follow.
She had a feeling that she was on the verge of an important discovery,
that events were about to happen which had been wholly unforeseen even
by old Cragg himself.

She was taking a serious risk by venturing on the stony ground, for
under the moonlight her dark form would show distinctly against the
dull gray of the stones. Yet she climbed the fence and with her eye
fixed on the cluster of rocks where Old Swallowtail had disappeared she
made her way as best she could toward the place. Should the old man
reappear or the owner of the strange automobile emerge from the rocks
Josie was sure to be discovered, and there was no telling what penalty
she might be obliged to pay for spying. It was a dreary, deserted
place; more than one grave might be made there without much chance of
detection.

In a few minutes she had reached the hillside and was among the great
boulders. She passed between the same ones where Mr. Cragg had
disappeared but found so many set here and there that to follow his
trail was impossible unless chance led her aright.

There were no paths, for a rubble of small stones covered the ground
everywhere. Between some of the huge rocks the passage was so narrow
she could scarcely squeeze through; between others there was ample
space for two people to walk abreast. The girl paused frequently to
listen, taking care the while to make no sound herself, but an intense
silence pervaded the place.

After wandering here and there for a time without result she had
started to return to the entrance of this labyrinth when her ears for
the first time caught a sound--a peculiar grinding, thumping sound that
came from beneath her feet seemingly, and was of so unusual a character
that she was puzzled to explain its cause.

The shadows cast by the towering rocks rendered this place quite dark,
so Josie crouched in the deepest shade she could find and listened
carefully to the strange sound, trying to determine its origin. It was
surely under ground--a little to the right of her--perhaps beneath the
hillside, which slanted abruptly from this spot. She decided there must
be some secret passage that led to a cave under the hill. Such a cave
might be either natural or artificial; in either case she was sure old
Cragg used it as a rendezvous or workshop and visited it stealthily on
his "wakeful" nights.

Having located the place to the best of her ability Josie began to
consider what caused that regular, thumping noise, which still
continued without intermission.

"I think it must be some sort of an engine," she reflected; "a stamp
for ore, or something of that sort. Still, it isn't likely there is any
steam or electrical power to operate the motor of so big a machine. It
might be a die stamp, though, operated by foot power, or--this is most
likely--a foot-power printing-press. Well, if a die stamp or a printing
press, I believe the mystery of Old Swallowtail's 'business' is readily
explained."

She sat still there, crouching between the rocks, for more than two
hours before the sound of the machine finally ceased. Another hour
passed in absolute silence. She ventured to flash her pocket
searchlight upon the dial of her watch and found it was nearly four
o'clock. Dawn would come, presently, and then her situation would be
more precarious than ever.

While she thus reflected the sound of footsteps reached her ears--very
near to her, indeed--and a voice muttered:

"Come this way. Have you forgotten?"

"Forgotten? I found the place, didn't I?" was the surly reply.

Then there passed her, so closely that she could have touched them,
three dim forms. She watched them go and promptly followed, taking the
chance of discovery if they looked behind. They were wholly unconscious
of her presence, however, and soon made their way out into the open.
There they paused, and Josie, hiding behind a high rock, could both see
and hear them plainly.

One was old Cragg; another a tall, thin man with a monocle in his left
eye; the third, she found to her surprise, was none other than Jim
Bennett the postman. The tall man held in his arms a heavy bundle,
securely wrapped.

"You'll surely get them off to-morrow?" said Cragg to him,

"Of course," was the answer. "You may be certain I'll not have them on
my hands longer than is necessary."

"Do you mean to play square, this time?"

"Don't be a fool," said the tall man impatiently. "Your infernal
suspicions have caused trouble enough, during the past year. Hidden
like a crab in your shell, you think everything on the outside is going
wrong. Can't you realize, Cragg, that I _must_ be loyal to C. I. L.?
There's no question of my playing square; I've got to."

"That's right, sir," broke in Jim Bennett. "Seems to me he's explained
everything in a satisfactory manner--as far as anyone _could_ explain."

"Then good night," said Cragg, gruffly, "and--good luck."

"Good night," growled the tall man in return and made off in the
direction of the automobile, carrying the package with him. The other
two stood silently watching him until he reached the car, took his seat
and started the motor. Presently the machine passed out of sight and
then Bennett said in a tone of deepest respect:

"Good night, Chief. This meeting was a great thing for C. I. L. It
brings us all nearer to final success."

"I wish I could trust him," replied Cragg, doubtfully. "Good night,
Jim."

The postman made off in another direction and the old man waited until
he had fully disappeared before he walked away over the stones himself.
Josie let him go. She did not care to follow him home. Weary though she
was from her long vigil she determined to examine the rocks by daylight
before she left the place.

The sun was just showing its rim over the hills when she quitted
Hezekiah Cragg's five acres of stones and took the lane to the highway.
But her step was elastic, her eyes bright, her face smiling.

"I've found the entrance, though I couldn't break in," she proudly
murmured. "But a little dynamite--or perhaps a few blows of an axe--
will soon remove the barrier. This affair, however, is now too big and
too serious for me to handle alone. I must have help. I think it will
amaze dear old Dad to know what I've stumbled on this night!"

CHAPTER XVIII
DOUBTS AND SUSPICIONS

Mary Louise entered her friend's room at seven o'clock and exclaimed:
"Not up yet?"

Josie raised her head drowsily from the pillow.

"Let me sleep till noon," she pleaded. "I've been out all night."

"And did you learn anything?" was the eager question.

"Please let me sleep!"

"Shall I send you up some breakfast, Josie?"

"Breakfast? Bah!"

She rolled over, drawing the clothes about her, and Mary Louise softly
left the darkened room and went down to breakfast.

"Gran'pa Jim," said she, thoughtfully buttering her toast, "do you
think it's right for Josie to be wandering around in the dead of
night?"

He gave her an odd look and smiled.

"If I remember aright, it was one Miss Mary Louise Burrows who thrust
Josie into this vortex of mystery."

"You didn't answer my question, Gran'pa Jim."

"I can imagine no harm, to girl or man, in being abroad in this
peaceful country at night, if one has the nerve to undertake it. You
and I, dear, prefer our beds. Josie is wrapped up in the science of
criminal investigation and has the enthusiasm of youth to egg her on.
Moreover, she is sensible enough to know what is best for her. I do not
think we need worry over her nightly wanderings, which doubtless have
an object. Has she made any important discovery as yet?"

"I believe not," said Mary Louise. "She has learned enough to be
positive that old Mr. Cragg is engaged in some secret occupation of an
illegal character, but so far she is unable to determine what it is.
He's a very queer old man, it seems, but shrewd and clever enough to
keep his secret to himself."

"And how about the disappearance of Mr. Joselyn?"

"We're divided in opinion about that," said the girl. "Ingua and I both
believe Mr. Cragg murdered him, but Josie isn't sure of it. If he did,
however, Josie thinks we will find the poor man's grave somewhere under
the stones of the river bed. There was no grave dug on our grounds,
that is certain."

Colonel Hathaway regarded her seriously.

"I am sorry, Mary Louise," he remarked, "that we ever decided to mix in
this affair. I did not realize, when first you proposed having Josie
here, that the thing might become so tragic."

"It has developed under investigation, you see," she replied. "But I am
not very sure of Josie's ability, because she is not very sure of it
herself. She dare not, even yet, advance a positive opinion. Unless she
learned something last night she is still groping in the dark."

"We must give her time," said the Colonel.

"We have accomplished some good, however," continued the girl. "Ingua
is much happier and more content. She is improving in her speech and
manners and is growing ambitious to become a respectable and refined
young lady. She doesn't often give way to temper, as she used to do on
every occasion, and I am sure if she could be removed from her
grandfather's evil influence she would soon develop in a way to
surprise us all."

"Does her grandfather's influence seem to be evil, then?" asked the
Colonel.

"He has surrounded her with privations, if not with actual want," said
she. "Only the night before last he was in such a violent rage that he
tried to smash everything in the house. That is surely an evil example
to set before the child, who has a temper of her own, perhaps inherited
from him. He has, however, bought her a new dress--the first one she
has had in more than a year--so perhaps the old man at times relents
toward his granddaughter and tries to atone for his shortcomings."

Gran'pa Jim was thoughtful for a time.

"Perhaps," he presently remarked, "Mr. Cragg has but little money to
buy dresses with. I do not imagine that a man so well educated as you
report him to be would prefer to live in a hovel, if he could afford
anything better."

"If he is now poor, what has he done with all his money?" demanded Mary
Louise.

"That is a part of the mystery, isn't it? Do you know, my dear, I can't
help having a kindly thought for this poor man; perhaps because he is a
grandfather and has a granddaughter--just as I have."

"He doesn't treat her in the same way, Gran'pa Jim," said she, with a
loving look toward the handsome old Colonel.

"And there is a perceptible difference between Ingua and Mary Louise,"
he added with a smile.

They were to have Ingua's dress fitted by Miss Huckins that morning,
and as Josie was fast asleep Mary Louise went across to the cottage to
go with the girl on her errand. To her surprise she found old Mr. Cragg
sitting upon his little front porch, quite motionless and with his arms
folded across his chest. He stared straight ahead and was evidently in
deep thought. This was odd, because he was usually at his office an
hour or more before this time.

Mary Louise hesitated whether to advance or retreat. She had never as
yet come into personal contact with Ingua's grandfather and, suspecting
him of many crimes, she shrank from meeting him now. But she was
herself in plain sight before she discovered his presence and it would
be fully as embarrassing to run away as to face him boldly. Moreover,
through the open doorway she could see Ingua passing back and forth in
the kitchen, engaged in her customary housework. So on she came.

Mr. Cragg had not seemed to observe her, at first, but as she now
approached the porch he rose from his chair and bowed with a courtly
grace that astonished her. In many ways his dignified manners seemed to
fit his colonial costume.

"You will find Ingua inside, I believe," he said.

"I--I am Mary Louise Burrows."

Again he bowed.

"I am glad to meet you, Miss Burrows. And I am glad that you and Ingua
are getting acquainted," he rejoined, in even, well modulated tones.
"She has not many friends and her association with you will be sure to
benefit her."

Mary Louise was so amazed that she fairly gasped.

"I--I like Ingua," she said. "We're going into town to have her new
dress tried on this morning."

He nodded and resumed his chair. His unexpected politeness gave her
courage.

"It's going to be a pretty dress," she continued, "and, if only she had
a new hat to go with it, Ingua would have a nice outfit. She needs new
shoes, though," as an afterthought, "and perhaps a few other little
things--like stockings and underwear."

He was silent, wholly unresponsive to her suggestion.

"I--I'd like to buy them for her myself," went on the girl, in a
wistful tone, "only Ingua is so proud that she won't accept gifts from
me."

Still he remained silent.

"I wonder," she said, with obvious hesitation, "if you would allow me
to give _you_ the things, sir, and then you give them to Ingua, as if
they came from yourself."

"No!" It was a veritable explosion, so fierce that she started back in
terror. Then he rose from his chair, abruptly quitted the porch and
walked down the path toward the bridge in his accustomed deliberate,
dignified manner.

Ingua, overhearing his ejaculation, came to the open window to see what
had caused it.

"Oh, it's you, Mary Louise, is it?" she exclaimed. "Thank goodness,
you've drove Gran'dad off to the office. I thought he'd planted himself
in that chair for the whole day."

"Are you ready to go to Miss Huckins'?" asked Mary Louise.

"I will be, in a few minutes. Gran'dad was late gett'n' up this mornin'
and that put things back. He had the 'wakes' ag'in last night."

"Oh; did he walk out, then?"

"Got back at about daylight and went to bed. That's why he slep' so
late."

Mary Louise reflected that in such a case Josie ought to have some news
to tell her. She answered Ingua's inquiries after Josie by saying she
was engaged this morning and would not go to town with them, so
presently the two girls set off together. Mary Louise was much better
qualified to direct the making of the new dress than was Josie, and she
gave Miss Huckins some hints on modern attire that somewhat astonished
the country dressmaker but were gratefully received. There was no
question but that Mary Louise was stylishly, if simply, dressed on all
occasions, and so Miss Huckins was glad to follow the young girl's
advice.

They were in the dressmaker's shop a long time, fitting and planning,
and when at length they came down the stairs they saw Sol Jerrems
standing in his door and closely scrutinizing through his big horn
spectacles something he held in his hand. As Mary Louise wished to make
a slight purchase at the store she approached the proprietor, who said
in a puzzled tone of voice:

"I dunno what t' say to you folks, 'cause I'm up in the air. This money
may be genooine, but it looks to me like a counterfeit," and he held up
a new ten-dollar bill.

"I want a roll of tape, please," said Mary Louise. "I hope your money
is good, Mr. Jerrems, but its value cannot interest us."

"I dunno 'bout that," he replied, looking hard at Ingua, "Ol'
Swallertail gimme this bill, not ten minutes ago, an' said as his
gran'darter was to buy whatever she liked, as fur as the money would
go. That order was so queer that it made me suspicious. See here: a few
days ago ol' Cragg bought Ingua a dress--an' paid for it, by gum!--an'
now he wants her t' git ten dollars' wuth o' shoes an' things! Don't
that look mighty strange?"

"Why?" asked Mary Louise.

"'Cause it's the first money he's spent on the kid since I kin
remember, an' he's allus talkin' poverty an' says how he'll die in the
poorhouse if prices keep goin' up, as they hev durin' the furrin war
that's now hummin' acrost the water. If he's _that_ poor, an' on a
sudden springs a ten-dollar bill on me for fixin's fer his kid, there's
sure somethin' wrong somewhere. I got stuck on a bill jus' like this a
year ago, an' I ain't goin' to let any goods go till I find out for
sure whether it's real money or not."

"When can you find out?" inquired Mary Louise.

"To-morrer there's a drummer due here f'm the city--a feller keen as a
razor--who'll know in a minute if the bill is a counterfeit. If he says
it's good, then Ingua kin trade it out, but I ain't goin' to take no
chances."

Ingua came close to the storekeeper, her face dark with passion.

"Come," said Mary Louise, taking the child's arm, "let us go home. I am
sure Mr. Jerrems is over particular and that the money is all right.
But we can wait until to-morrow, easily. Come, Ingua."

The child went reluctantly, much preferring to vent her indignation on
old Sol. Mary Louise tried to get her mind off the insult.

"We'll have the things, all right, Ingua," she said. "Wasn't it
splendid in your grandfather to be so generous, when he has so little
money to spend? And the ten dollars will fit you up famously. I wish,
though," she added, "there was another or a better store at the
Crossing at which to trade."

"Well, there ain't," observed Ingua, "so we hev to put up with that Sol
Jerrems. When I tell Gran'dad about this business I bet he'll punch Sol
Jerrems' nose."

"Don't tell him," advised Mary Louise.

"Why not?"

"I think he gave this money to Mr. Jerrems on a sudden impulse.
Perhaps, if there is any question about its being genuine, he will take
it back, and you will lose the value of it. Better wait until
to-morrow, when of course the drummer will pronounce it all right. My
opinion is that Mr. Jerrems is so unused to new ten dollar bills that
having one makes him unjustly suspicious."

"I guess yer right," said Ingua more cheerfully. "It's amazin' that
Gran'dad loosened up at all. An' he might repent, like you say, an'
take the money back. So I'll be like ol' Sol--I'll take no chances."

CHAPTER XIX
GOOD MONEY FOR BAD

At luncheon Josie appeared at the table, fresh as ever, and Mary Louise
began to relate to her and to her grandfather the occurrences of the
morning. When she came to tell how Sol Jerrems had declared the money
counterfeit, Josie suddenly sprang up and swung her napkin around her
head, shouting gleefully:

"Glory hallelujah! I've got him. I've trapped Old Swallowtail at last."

They looked at her in amazement.

"What do you mean?" asked Mary Louise.

Josie sobered instantly.

"Forgive me," she said; "I'm ashamed of myself. Go on with the story.
What became of that counterfeit bill?"

"Mr. Jerrems has it yet. He is keeping it to show to a commercial
traveler, who is to visit his store to-morrow. If the man declares the
money is good, then Ingua may buy her things."

"We won't bother the commercial traveler," said Josie, in a tone of
relief. "I'm going straight down to the store to redeem that bill. I
want it in my possession."

Colonel Hathaway regarded her gravely.

"I think our female detective, having said so much and having exhibited
such remarkable elation, must now explain her discoveries to us more
fully," said he.

"I'd rather not, just yet," protested Josie. "But what have I said in
my madness, and what did my words imply?"

"From the little I know of this case," replied the Colonel, "I must
judge that you believe Mr. Cragg to be a counterfeiter, and that his
mysterious business is--to counterfeit. In this out-of-the-way place,"
he continued, thoughtfully, "such a venture might be carried on for a
long time without detection. Yet there is one thing that to me forbids
this theory."

"What is that, sir?"

"A counterfeiter must of necessity have confederates, and Mr. Cragg
seems quite alone in the conduct of his mysterious business."

Josie smiled quite contentedly. Confederates? Last night's discoveries
had proved that Old Swallowtail had two of these, at least.

"Please don't lisp a word of this suspicion at present," she warned her
friends. "If I am right--and I have no doubt of that--we are about to
uncover a far-reaching conspiracy to defraud the Government. But the
slightest hint of danger would enable them to escape and I want the
credit of putting this gang of desperadoes behind the bars. Really, I'd
no idea, when I began the investigation, that it would lead to anything
so important. I thought, at first, it might be a simple murder case;
simple, because the commonest people commit murder, and to the
detective the deed is more revolting than exciting. But we may dismiss
the murder suspicion entirely."

"Oh, indeed! What about Ned Joselyn's mysterious disappearance?" asked
Mary Louise.

"Joselyn? He disappeared for a purpose," answered Josie. "I saw him
last night--monocle and all--acting as old Cragg's confederate. Ned
Joselyn is one of those I hope to land in prison."

Her hearers seemed quite bewildered by this positive statement.

"Where were you last night?" inquired Mary Louise.

"At that five acres of stones we once visited, which is Mr. Cragg's
private property. Hidden somewhere in the hillside is a cavern, and in
that cavern the counterfeit money is made. I have heard the
printing-press turning it out in quantity; I saw Ned Joselyn come away
with a package of the manufactured bills and heard Old Swallowtail
implore him  to 'play square' with the proceeds. There was another of
the gang present, also; a man whom I had considered quite an innocent
citizen of Cragg's Crossing until I discovered him with the others. I
think it was he who operated the press. It has been a very pretty plot,
a cleverly conducted plot; and it has been in successful operation for
years. But the gang is in the toils, just now, and little redheaded
Josie O'Gorman is going to score a victory that will please her
detective daddy mightily." Josie was surely elated when she ventured
to boast in this manner. The others were duly impressed.

"You don't mean to arrest those men alone, do you, Josie?" asked the
Colonel somewhat anxiously.

"No, indeed. I'm not yet quite ready to spring my trap," she replied.
"When the time comes, I must have assistance, but I want to get all my
evidence shipshape before I call on the Secret Service to make the
capture. I can't afford to bungle so important a thing, you know, and
this ten dollar bill, so carelessly given the storekeeper, is going to
put one powerful bit of evidence in my hands. That was a bad slip on
old Cragg's part, for he has been very cautious in covering his tracks,
until now. But I surmise that Mary Louise's pleading for Ingua, this
morning, touched his pride, and having no real money at hand he
ventured to give the storekeeper a counterfeit. And old Sol, having
been caught by a counterfeit once before--I wonder if Old Swallowtail
gave him that one, too?--became suspicious of the newness of the bill
and so played directly into our hands. So now, if you'll excuse me,
I'll run to town without further delay. I won't rest easy until that
bill is in my possession."

"I'll go with you," said Mary Louise eagerly.

Half an hour later the two girls entered the store and found the
proprietor alone. Mary Louise made a slight purchase, as an excuse, and
then Josie laid ten silver dollars on the counter and said carelessly:

"Will you give me a ten dollar bill for this silver, Mr. Jerrems? I
want to send it away in a letter."

"Sure; I'd ruther hev the change than the bill," he answered, taking
out his wallet. "But I wouldn't send so much money in a letter, if I
was you. Better buy a post-office order."

"I know my business," she pertly replied, watching him unroll the
leather wallet. "No; don't give me that old bill. I'd rather have the
new one on top."

"That new one," said he, "I don't b'lieve is good. Looks like a
counterfeit, to me."

"Let's see it," proposed Josie, taking the bill in her hand and
scrutinizing it. "I can tell a counterfeit a mile away. No; this is all
right; I'll take it," she decided.

"Yer like to git stung, if ye do," he warned her.

"I'll take my chances," said Josie, folding the bill and putting it in
her purse. "You've got good money for it, anyhow, so you've no kick
coming, that I can see."

"Why, that must be the bill Mr. Cragg gave you," Mary Louise said to
the storekeeper, as if she had just recognized it.

"It is," admitted Sol.

"Then Ingua can now buy her outfit?"

"Any time she likes," he said. "But I want it reg'lar understood that
the sewin'-girl can't bring the money back to me, if she finds it bad.
I ain't sure it's bad, ye know, but I've warned her, an' now it's her
look-out."

"Of course it is," agreed Josie. "But don't worry. The bill is good as
gold. I wish I had a hundred like it."

On their way home Josie stopped to call on Ingua, while Mary Louise, at
her friend's request, went on.

"I've two important things to tell you," Josie announced to the child.
"One is that you needn't worry any more about Ned Joselyn's being dead.
A girl whom I know well has lately seen him alive and in good health,
so whatever your grandfather's crimes may have been he is not a
murderer."

Ingua was astounded. After a moment she gasped out:

"How d'ye know? Who was the girl? Are ye sure it were Ned Joselyn?"

"Quite sure. He has probably been in hiding, for some reason. But you
mustn't tell a soul about this, Ingua; especially your grandfather. It
is part of the secret between us, and that's the reason I have told
you."

Ingua still stared as if bewildered.

"Who was the girl?" she whispered.

"I can't tell you her name, but you may depend upon the truth of her
statement, just the same."

"And she's _sure_ it were Ned Joselyn she saw?"

"Isn't he tall and thin, with a light moustache and curly hair, and
doesn't he wear a glass in one eye?"

"With a string to it; yes! That's him, sure enough. Where'd she see
him?"

"Don't ask me questions. It's a part of the girl's secret, you know.
She let me tell you this much, so that you wouldn't worry any longer
over the horror of that winter night when your grandfather went to the
Kenton house and Joselyn disappeared. I think, Ingua, that the man is
crooked, and mixed up with a lot of scoundrels who ought to be in
jail."

Ingua nodded her head.

"Gran'dad told him he was crooked," she affirmed. "I don't say as
Gran'dad is a saint, Josie, but he ain't crooked, like Ned--ye kin bank
on that--'cause he's a Cragg, an' the Craggs is square-toes even when
they're chill'ins."

Josie smiled at this quaint speech. She was sorry for poor Ingua, whose
stalwart belief in the Cragg honesty was doomed to utter annihilation
when her grandsire was proved to have defrauded the Government by
making counterfeit money. But this was no time to undeceive the child,
so she said:

"The other bit of news is that Sol Jerrems has traded the bill which he
thought was bad for good money, so you can buy your things any time you
please."

"Then it wasn't counterfeit?"

"I saw it myself. I've lived in the city so long that no one can fool
me with counterfeit money. I can tell it in two looks, Ingua. So I'd
rather have a nice new bill than ten clumsy silver dollars and I made
the trade myself."

"Where'd ye get so much money, Josie?"

"My wages. I don't do much work, but I get paid regularly once a week."

She didn't explain that her father made her a weekly allowance, but
Ingua was satisfied.

"What do you think I orter buy with that money, Josie? I need so many
things that it's hard to tell where to begin and where to leave off."

"Let's make a list, then, and figure it out."

This occupied them some time and proved a very fascinating occupation
to the poor girl, who had never before had so much money to spend at
one time.

"I owe it all to Mary Louise," she said gratefully, as Josie rose to
depart. "It seems like no one can refuse Mary Louise anything. When she
asked me to be more careful in my speech didn't I do better? I slips,
now an' then, but I'ms always tryin'. And she tackled Gran'dad. If you
or me--or I--had asked Gran'dad for that money, Josie, we'd never 'a'
got it in a thousan' years. Why do you s'pose Mary Louise gits into
people the way she does?"

"It's personality, I suppose," answered Josie, thoughtfully. And then,
realizing that Ingua might not understand that remark, she added:
"There's no sham about Mary Louise; she's so simple and sweet that she
wins hearts without any effort. You and I have natures so positive, on
the contrary, that we seem always on the aggressive, and that makes
folks hold aloof from us, or even oppose us."

"I wish I was like Mary Louise," said Ingua with a sigh.

"I don't," declared Josie. "We can't all be alike, you know, and I'd
rather push ahead, and get a few knocks on the way, then have a clear
path and no opposition."

CHAPTER XX
AN UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE

For a week it was very quiet at Cragg's Crossing. The only ripple of
excitement was caused by the purchase of Ingua's new outfit. In this
the child was ably assisted by Mary Louise and Josie; indeed, finding
the younger girl so ignorant of prices, and even of her own needs, the
two elder ones entered into a conspiracy with old Sol and slyly added
another ten dollars to Ingua's credit. The result was that she carried
home not only shoes and a new hat--trimmed by Miss Huckins without
cost, the material being furnished from the fund--but a liberal supply
of underwear, ribbons, collars and hosiery, and even a pair of silk
gloves, which delighted the child's heart more than anything else.

Miss Huckins' new dress proved very pretty and becoming, and with all
her wealth of apparel Ingua was persuaded to dine with Mary Louise at
the Kenton house on Saturday evening. The hour was set for seven
o'clock, in order to allow the girl to prepare her grandfather's supper
before going out, and the first intimation Old Swallowtail had of the
arrangement was when he entered the house Saturday evening and found
Ingua arrayed in all her finery.

He made no remark at first, but looked at her more than once--whether
approvingly or not his stolid expression did not betray. When the girl
did not sit down to the table and he observed she had set no place for
herself, he suddenly said:

"Well?"

"I'm goin' to eat with the Hathaways to-night," she replied. "Their
dinner ain't ready till seven o'clock, so if ye hurry a little I kin
wash the dishes afore I go."

He offered no objection. Indeed, he said nothing at all until he had
finished his simple meal. Then, as she cleared the table, he said:

"It might be well, while you are in the society of Mary Louise and
Colonel Hathaway, to notice their method of speech and try to imitate
it."

"What's wrong with my talk?" she demanded. She was annoyed at the
suggestion, because she had been earnestly trying to imitate Mary
Louise's speech.

"I will leave you to make the discovery yourself," he said dryly.

She tossed her dishes into the hot water rather recklessly.

"If I orter talk diff'rent," said she, "it's your fault. Ye hain't give
me no schooling ner noth'n'. Ye don't even say six words a week to me.
I'm just your slave, to make yer bed an' cook yer meals an' wash yer
dishes. Gee! how'd ye s'pose I'd talk? Like a lady?"

"I think," he quietly responded, "you picked up your slang from your
mother, who, however, had some education. The education ruined her for
the quiet life here and she plunged into the world to get the
excitement she craved. Hasn't she been sorry for it many times, Ingua?"

"I don't know much 'bout Marm, an' I don't care whether she's sorry or
not. But I do know I need an eddication. If Mary Louise hadn't had no
eddication she'd 'a' been just like me: a bit o' junk on a scrap-heap,
that ain't no good to itself ner anybody else."

He mused silently for a while, getting up finally and walking over to
the door.

"Your peculiarities of expression," he then remarked, as if more to
himself than to the child, "are those we notice in Sol Jerrems and Joe
Brennan and Mary Ann Hopper. They are characteristic, of the rural
population, which, having no spur to improve its vocabulary, naturally
grows degenerate in speech."

She glanced at him half defiantly, not sure whether he was "pokin' fun
at her" or not.

"If you mean I talks country talk," said she, "you're right. Why
shouldn't I, with no one to tell me better?"

Again he mused. His mood was gentle this evening.

"I realize I have neglected you," he presently said. "You were thrust
upon me like a stray kitten, which one does not want but cannot well
reject. Your mother has not supplied me with money for your education,
although she has regularly paid for your keep."

"She has?" cried Ingua, astounded. "Then you've swindled her an' me
both, for I pays for more'n my keep in hard work. My keep? For the love
o' Mike, what does my keep amount to? A cent a year?"

He winced a little at her sarcasm but soon collected himself. Strangely
enough, he did not appear to be angry with her.

"I've neglected you," he repeated, "but it has been an oversight. I
have had so much on my mind that I scarcely realized you were here. I
forgot you are Nan's child and that you--you needed attention."

Ingua put on her new hat, looking into a cracked mirror.

"Ye might 'a' remembered I'm a Cragg, anyhow," said she, mollified by
his tone of self reproach. "An' ye might 'a' remembered as _you're_ a
Cragg. The Craggs orter help each other, 'cause all the world's ag'in
'em."

He gave her an odd look, in which pride, perplexity and astonishment
mingled.

"And you are going into the enemy's camp to-night?"

"Oh, Mary Louise is all right. She ain't like them other snippy girls
that sometimes comes here to the big houses. _She_ don't care if I _am_
a Cragg, or if I talks country. I like Mary Louise."

When she had gone the old man sat in deep thought for a long time. The
summer evening cast shadows; twilight fell; darkness gradually shrouded
the bare little room. Still he sat in his chair, staring straight ahead
into the gloom and thinking.

Then the door opened. Shifting his eyes he discovered a dim shadow in
the opening. Whoever it was stood motionless until a low, clear voice
asked sharply:

"Anybody home?"

He got up, then, and shuffled to a shelf, where he felt for a kerosene
lamp and lighted it.

"Come in, Nan," he said without turning around, as he stooped over the
lamp and adjusted the wick.

The yellow light showed a young woman standing in the doorway, a woman
of perhaps thirty-five. She was tall, erect, her features well formed,
her eyes bright and searching. Her walking-suit was neat and modish and
fitted well her graceful, rounded form. On her arm was a huge basket,
which she placed upon a chair as she advanced into the room and closed
the door behind her.

"So you've come back," remarked Old Swallowtail, standing before her
and regarding her critically.

"A self-evident fact, Dad," she answered lightly, removing her hat.
"Where's Ingua?"

"At a dinner party across the river."

"That's good. Is she well?"

"What do you care, Nan, whether she is well or not?"

"If she's at a dinner party I needn't worry. Forgive the foolish
question, Dad. Brennan promised to bring my suit case over in the
morning. I lugged the basket myself."

"What's in the basket?"

"Food. Unless you've changed your mode of living the cupboard's pretty
bare, and this is Saturday night. I can sleep on that heartbreaking
husk mattress with Ingua, but I'll be skinned if I eat your salt junk
and corn pone. Forewarned is forearmed; I brought my own grub."

As she spoke she hung her hat and coat on some pegs, turned the lamp a
little higher and then, pausing with hands on hips, she looked
inquisitively at her father.

"You seem pretty husky, for your age," she continued, with a hard
little laugh.

"You've been prospering, Nan."

"Yes," sitting in a chair and crossing her legs, "I've found my forte
at last. For three years, nearly, I've been employed by the Secret
Service Department at Washington."

"Ah."

"I've made good. My record as a woman sleuth is excellent. I make more
money in a week--when I'm working--than you do in a year. Unless--" She
paused abruptly and gave him a queer look.

"Unless it's true that you're coining money in a way that's not legal."

He stood motionless before her, reading her face. She returned his
scrutiny with interest. Neither resumed the conversation for a time.
Finally the old man sank back into his chair.

"A female detective," said he, a little bitterly, "is still--a female."

"And likewise a detective. I know more about you, Dad, than you think,"
she asserted, in an easy, composed tone that it seemed impossible to
disturb. "You need looking after, just at this juncture, and as I've
been granted a vacation I ran up here to look after you."

"In what way, Nan?"

"We'll talk that over later. There isn't much love lost between us,
more's the pity. You've always thought more of your infernal 'Cause'
than of your daughter. But we're Craggs, both of us, and it's the Cragg
custom to stand by the family."

It struck him as curious that Ingua had repeated almost those very
words earlier that same evening. He had never taught them the Cragg
motto, "Stand Fast," that he could remember, yet both Nan and her child
were loyal to the code. Was _he_ loyal, too? Had he stood by Nan in the
past, and Ingua in the present, as a Cragg should do?

His face was a bit haggard as he sat in his chair and faced his
frank-spoken daughter, whose clear eyes did not waver before his
questioning gaze.

"I know what you're thinking," said she; "that I've never been much of
a daughter to you. Well, neither have you been much of a father to me.
Ever since I was born and my unknown mother--lucky soul!--died, you've
been obsessed by an idea which, lofty and altruistic as you may have
considered it, has rendered you self-centered, cold and inconsiderate
of your own flesh and blood. Then there's that devilish temper of yours
to contend with. I couldn't stand the life here. I wandered away and
goodness knows how I managed to live year after year in a struggle with
the world, rather than endure your society and the hardships you thrust
upon me. You've always had money, yet not a cent would you devote to
your family. You lived like a dog and wanted me to do the same, and I
wouldn't. Finally I met a good man and married him. He wasn't rich but
he was generous. When he died I was thrown on my own resources again,
with a child of my own to look after. Circumstances forced me to leave
Ingua with you while I hunted for work. I found it. I'm a detective,
well-known and respected in my profession."

"I'm glad to know you are prosperous," he said gently, as she paused.
He made no excuses. He did not contradict her accusations. He waited to
hear her out.

"So," said Nan, in a careless, offhand tone, "I've come here to save
you. You're in trouble."

"I am not aware of it."

"Very true. If you were, the danger would be less. I've always had to
guess at most of your secret life. I knew you were sly and secretive. I
didn't know until now that you've been crooked."

He frowned a little but made no retort.

"It doesn't surprise me, however," she continued. "A good many folks
are crooked, at times, and the only wonder is that a clever man like
you has tripped and allowed himself to fall under suspicion. Suspicion
leads to investigation--when it's followed up--and investigation, in
such cases, leads to--jail."

He gave a low growl that sounded like the cry of an enraged beast, and
gripped the arms of his chair fiercely. Then he rose and paced the room
with frantic energy. Nan watched him with a half smile on her face.
When he had finally mastered his wrath and became more quiet she said:

"Don't worry, Dad. I said I have come to save you. It will be fun,
after working for the Government so long, to work against it. There's a
certain red-headed imp in this neighborhood who is the daughter of our
assistant chief, John O'Gorman. Her name is Josie O'Gorman and she's in
training for the same profession of which I'm an ornament. I won't
sneer at her, for she's clever, in a way, but I'd like to show O'Gorman
that Nan Shelley--that's my name in Washington--is a little more clever
than his pet. This Josie O'Gorman is staying with the Hathaway family.
She's been probing your secret life and business enterprises and has
unearthed an important clew in which the department is bound to be
interested. So she sent a code telegram to O'Gorman, who left it on his
desk long enough for me to decipher and read it. I don't know what the
assistant chief will do about it, for I left Washington an hour later
and came straight to you. What I do know is that I'm in time to spike
Miss Josie's guns, which will give me a great deal of pleasure. She
doesn't know I'm your daughter, any more than O'Gorman does, so if the
girl sees me here she'll imagine I'm on Government business. But I want
to keep out of her way for a time. Do you know the girl, Dad?"

"Yes," he said.

"She's rather clever."

"Yes."

"I think she'd have nabbed you, presently, if I hadn't taken hold of
the case so promptly myself. With our start, and the exercise of a
grain of intelligence, we can baffle any opposition the girl can bring
to bear. Do you wish to run away?"

"No," he growled.

"I'm glad of that. I like the excitement of facing danger boldly. But
there's ample time to talk over details. I see you've had your supper,
so I'll just fry myself a beefsteak."

She opened her basket and began to prepare a meal. Old Swallowtail sat
and watched her. Presently he smiled grimly and Nan never noticed the
expression. Perhaps, had she done so, she would have demanded an
explanation. He rarely smiled, and certainly his daughter's disclosures
were not calculated to excite mirth, or even to amuse.

CHAPTER XXI
A CASE OF NERVES

The "hotel" at the Crossing was not an imposing affair. Indeed, had
there not been an "office" in the front room, with a wooden desk in one
corner, six chairs and two boxes of sawdust to serve as cuspidors, the
building might easily have been mistaken for a private residence. But
it stood on the corner opposite the store and had a worn and scarcely
legible sign over the front door, calling it a hotel in capital
letters.

The Hoppers, who operated the establishment, did an excellent business.
On week days the farmers who came to town to trade made it a point to
eat one of Silas Hopper's twenty-five cent dinners, famous for at least
five miles around for profusion and good cookery. On Sundays--and
sometimes on other days--an automobile party, touring the country,
would stop at the hotel for a meal, and Mrs. Hopper was accustomed to
have a chicken dinner prepared every Sunday in the hope of attracting a
stray tourist. There were two guest rooms upstairs that were
religiously reserved in case some patron wished to stay overnight, but
these instances were rare unless a drummer missed his train and
couldn't get away from the Crossing until the next day.

The Sunday following the arrival of Ingua's mother in town proved a
dull day with the Hoppers, who had been compelled to eat their chicken
dinner themselves in default of customers. The dishes had been washed
and Mary Ann, the daughter of the house, was sitting on the front porch
in her Sunday gown and a rocking-chair, when an automobile drove up to
the door and a dapper little man alighted. He was very elaborately
dressed, with silk hat, patent-leather shoes and a cane setting off his
Prince Albert coat and lavender striped trousers. Across his white
waistcoat was a heavy gold watch-guard with an enormous locket dangling
from it; he had a sparkling pin in his checkered neck-scarf that might
be set with diamonds but perhaps wasn't; on his fingers gleamed two or
three elaborate rings. He had curly blond hair and a blond moustache
and he wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses. Altogether the little man was quite
a dandy and radiated prosperity. So, when the driver of the automobile
handed out two heavy suit cases and received from the stranger a crisp
bill for his services, Mary Ann Hopper realized with exultation that
the hotel was to have a guest.

As the car which had brought him rolled away the little man turned,
observed Mary Ann, and removing his silt hat bowed low.

"I presume," said he in precise accents, "that this town is that of
Cragg's Crossing, and that this building is the hotel. Am I correct in
the surmise?"

"I'll call Pa," said Mary Ann, somewhat embarrassed. Drummers she could
greet with unconcern, but this important individual was a man of a
different sort. His brilliant personality dazzled her.

Mr. Hopper came out in his shirtsleeves, gave one look at his customer
and put on his coat.

"Goin' to stay, sir?" he asked.

"For a time, if I like the accommodations," was the reply. "I am in
need of perfect quiet. My doctor says I must court tranquility to avoid
a nervous breakdown. I do not know your town; I do not know your hotel;
I hired a man in the city to drive me until I came to a quiet place. He
assured me, on the way, that this is a quiet place."

"I dunno him," said Hopper, "but he didn't put up no bluff. If ye can
find a quieter place ner this, outside a graveyard, I'll board ye fer
noth'n'."

"I thank you for your assurance, sir. Can you show me to the best room
you can place at my disposal?"

"Had dinner?"

"I thank you, yes. I am weary from the long ride. I will lie down for
an hour. Then I will take my usual walk. When I return I would like an
omelet with mushrooms--I suppose you have no truffles?--for my evening
meal."

The landlord grinned and picked up the suit cases.

"We're jest out o' truffles an' we're out o' mushrooms," he said, "but
we're long on eggs an' ye can have 'em omeletted or fried or b'iled, as
it suits yer fancy. Sophie's best hold is cookin' eggs. Sophie's my
wife, ye know, an' there ain't no better cook in seven counties, so the
drummers say."

As he spoke he entered the house and led the way up the stairs.

"Thank you; thank you," said the stranger. "I am glad your good wife is
an experienced cook. Kindly ask her to spare no expense in preparing my
meals. I am willing to pay liberally for what I receive."

"This room, with board," remarked Hopper, setting down the suit cases
in the front corner bedchamber, "will cost you a dollar a day, or five
dollars a week--if you eat our reg'lar meals. If ye keep callin' fer
extrys, I'll hev to charge ye extry."

"Very reasonable; very reasonable, indeed," declared the stranger,
taking a roll of bills from his pocket. "As I am at present unknown to
you, I beg you to accept this five-dollar bill in advance. And now, if
you will bring me a pitcher of ice-water, I will take my needed siesta.
My nerves, as you may have observed, are at somewhat of a tension
to-day."

"We're out o' ice," remarked the landlord, pocketing the money, "but
ye'll find plenty of good cold water at the pump in the back yard.
Anything else, sir?"

"I thank you, no. I am not thirsty. Ice-water is not necessary to my
happiness. You will pardon me if I ask to be left alone--with my
nerves."

Hopper went away chuckling. His wife and Mary Ann were both at the foot
of the stairs, lying in wait to question him.

"That feller's as good as a circus," he asserted, taking off his coat
again and lighting his corncob pipe. "He's got nerves an' money, an'
he's come here to git rid of 'em both."

"Who is he?" demanded Mrs. Hopper.

"By gum, I fergot to ask him. I got thanked fer ev'rything I did an'
ev'rything I couldn't do, an' I've got five dollars o' his money in my
jeans as a evidence o' good faith. The whole performance sort o'
knocked me out."

"No wonder," asserted, his wife sympathetically.

"I'll bet he's some punkins, though," declared Mary Ann, "an' he'll be
a godsend to us after a dull week. Only, remember this, if he kicks on
the feed he don't git no satisfaction out o' me."

"I don't think he'll kick on anything," said her father. "He wants eggs
for his supper, in a omelet."

"He couldn't want anything that's cheaper to make," said Mrs. Hopper.
"The hens are layin' fine jus' now."

"When he comes down, make him register," suggested Mary Ann. "If ye
don't, we won't know what ter call him."

"I'll call him an easy mark, whatever his name is," said the landlord,
grinning at his own attempt at wit.

The stranger kept his room until five o'clock. Then he came down, spick
and span, his cane under his arm, upon his hands a pair of bright
yellow kid gloves.

"I will now indulge in my walk," said he, addressing the family group
in the office. "My nerves are better, but still vibrant. I shall be
further restored on my return."

"Jest sign the register," proposed Hopper, pointing to a worn and
soiled book spread upon the counter. "Hate to trouble ye, but it's one
o' the rules o' my hotel."

"No trouble, thank you; no trouble at all," responded the stranger, and
drawing a fountain-pen from his pocket he approached the register and
wrote upon the blank page. "I hope there is, nothing to see in your
town," he remarked, turning away. "I don't wish to see anything. I
merely desire to walk."

"Yer wish'll come true, I guess," said Hopper. "I've lived here over
twenty year an' I hain't seen noth'n' yet. But the walkin' is as good
as it is anywhere."

"Thank you. I shall return at six o'clock--for the omelet," and he
walked away with short, mincing steps that seemed to them all very
comical.

Three heads at once bent over the register, on which the stranger had I
written in clear, delicate characters: "Lysander Antonius Sinclair, B.
N., Boston, Mass."

"I wonder what the 'B. N.' stands for," said Mary Ann Hopper,
curiously.

"Bum Nerves, o' course," replied the landlord. "He's got 'em, sure
enough."

CHAPTER XXII
INGUA'S MOTHER

"And how do you like your grandfather? Is he good to you?" asked Mrs.
Scammel on Sunday forenoon, as she sat on the porch beside her small
daughter. Old Swallowtail did not usually go to his office on Sundays,
but kept his room at the cottage and wrote letters. To-day, however, he
had wandered down the path and disappeared, and Nan and Ingua were both
glad to see him go.

"No," answered the child to both questions.

"You don't like him?"

"How can I, when he jes' sets an' glares at me ev'ry time he comes into
the house--'cept when he complains I ain't doin' my work proper? It
were a sort o' mean trick o' yours, Marm, leavin' me here to slave fer
that ol' man while you was off in the cities, havin' a good time."

"Yes," said Nan, "I was frolicking with starvation until I got a job,
and it was the sort of job that wouldn't allow having a child around.
But since I've been making money I've sent Dad five dollars every week,
for your clothes and board."

"You have?"

"Every week."

"Ten cents a week would pay for all the grub he gives me, an' there
ain't a beggar in the county that sports the rags an' tatters I does.
That new dress I had on las' night was the first thing in clothes he's
bought me for a year, and I guess I wouldn't have had that if Mary
Louise hadn't told him he orter dress me more decent."

Nan's brow grew dark.

"I'll have it out with him for that," she promised. "What does he do
with his money, Ingua?"

"Salts it, I guess. I never see him have any. It's one o' the
mysteries, Marm. Mysteries is thick aroun' Gran'dad, an' folks
suspicion 'most anything about him. All I know is that he ain't no
spendthrift. Once, when Ned Joselyn used to come here, there was lots
of money passed between 'em. I saw it myself. I helped pick it up,
once, when they quarreled an' upset the table an' spilled things. But
since Ned run ayray. Gran'dad's be'n more savin' than ever."

"Ingua," said Nan, thoughtfully, "I want you to tell me all you know
about Ned Joselyn, from the time he first came here."

Ingua regarded her mother with serious eyes.

"All?" she inquired.

"Everything, little or big, that you can recollect."

"You'll stick to Gran'dad, won't ye?"

"That's what I'm here for. There are enemies on his trail and I mean to
save him."

"What's he done?"

"I've got to find that out. When I was here before, I knew he had some
secret interest to which he was devoted, but I was too indifferent to
find out what it was. Now I want to know. If I'm going to save him from
the penalties of his crime I must know what the crime is. I think this
man Joselyn is mixed up with it in some way, so go ahead and tell me
all you know about him."

Ingua obeyed. For more than an hour she earnestly related the story of
Ned Joselyn, only pausing to answer an occasional question from her
mother. When she came to that final meeting at Christmas week and
Joselyn's mysterious disappearance, Nan asked:

"Do you think he killed him?"

"I was pretty sure of it till yest'day, when Josie told me a friend of
hers had seen him alive an' well."

"Josie O'Gorman?"

"No, Josie Jessup. She's the sewin'-girl over to Mary Louise's."

"I know; but that girl has more names than one. Do you know her very
well, Ingua?"

"She's my best chum," declared the child. "Josie's a dandy girl, an' I
like her."

"Have you told her anything about your gran'dad?"

"A little," Ingua admitted, hesitating.

"See here," said Nan, scowling, "I'll put you wise. This red-headed
Josie O'Gorman is a detective. She's the daughter of the man I work for
in Washington--the assistant chief of the Department--and she is here
to try to land your gran'dad in jail. What's more, Ingua, she's likely
to do it, unless you and I find a way to head her off."

Ingua's face depicted astonishment, grief, disappointment. Finally she
said:

"Gran'dad didn't murder Ned, for Josie herself told me so; so I can't
see what he's done to go to jail for."

"He has counterfeited money," said Nan in a low voice.

"Gran'dad has?"

"So they say, and I believe it may be true. Josie has wired her father
that she's got the goods on Old Swallowtail and has asked that somebody
be sent to arrest him. I saw the telegram and made up my mind I'd get
the start of the O'Gormans. Dad won't run away. I've warned him they
are on his trail and he didn't make any reply. But I wouldn't be
surprised if he's gone, this very day, to cover up his traces. He's
bright enough to know that if he destroys all evidence they can't prove
anything against him."

She spoke musingly, more to herself than the child beside her, but
Ingua drew a deep sigh and remarked:

"Then it's all right. Gran'dad is slick. They'll hev to get up early in
the mornin' to beat him at his own game. But I wonder what he does with
the counterfeit money, or the real money he trades it for."

"I think I know," said her mother. "He's chucked a fortune into one
crazy idea, in which his life has been bound up ever since I can
remember, and I suppose he tried counterfeiting to get more money to
chuck away in the same foolish manner."

"What crazy idea is that?" inquired Ingua.

"I'll tell you, sometime. Just now I see your friend Josie coming, and
that's a bit of good luck. I'm anxious to meet her, but if she sees me
first she won't come on." As she spoke she rose swiftly and disappeared
into the house. "Stay where you are, Ingua," she called from within in
a low voice; "I don't want her to escape."

Josie was even now making her way across the stepping-stones. Presently
she ran up the bank, smiling, and plumped down beside Ingua.

"Top o' the morning to you," said she. "How did you enjoy your first
evening in society?"

"They were all very good to me," replied Ingua slowly, looking at her
friend with troubled eyes. "I had a nice time, but--"

"You were a little shy," said Josie, "but that was only natural. When
you get better acquainted with Mary Louise and the dear old Colonel,
you'll--"

She stopped abruptly, for looking up she saw standing in the doorway
Nan Shelley--by which name she knew her--who was calmly regarding her.
The shock of surprise, for shock it surely was, seemed brief, for
almost instantly Josie completed her broken speech:

"When you know them better you'll feel quite at home in their society.
Hello, Nan."

"What! Josie O'Gorman? You here?" with well-affected surprise.

"You know it. But how came _you_ here, Nan? Has Daddy sent you to help
me?"

"Help you! In what way?"

"Help me enjoy country life," said Josie, coloring at her slip.

"Why, I'm on a vacation. You don't seem to understand. I'm--Ingua's
mother."

Josie's self-control wasn't proof against this second shock. Her blue
eyes stared amazed. With a low exclamation she stood up and faced the
woman.

"Ingua's mother! You, Nan?"

"Just so," with a quiet smile.

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself," declared Josie with
righteous indignation. "You're one of the best paid women in the
Department, and you've left your poor child here to starve and slave
for a wretched old--," she paused.

"Well, what is he?" asked Nan with tantalizing gentleness.

"An old skinflint, at the least. Shame on you, Nan! Ingua is a dear
little girl, and you--you're an unnatural mother. Why, I never
suspected you were even married."

"I'm a widow, Josie."

"And Old Swallowtail is your father? How strange. But--why did you come
here just now?" with sudden suspicion.

"I've just finished the Hillyard case and they gave me a vacation. So I
came here to see my little girl. I didn't know she was being neglected,
Josie. I shall take better care of her after this. My visit to Cragg's
Crossing is perfectly natural, for I was born here. But you? What are
you up to, Josie?"

"I'm visiting Mary Louise Burrows."

"With what object?"

A detective must be quick-witted. Josie's brain was working with
lightning-like rapidity. In a few brief seconds she comprehended that
if Nan was Old Swallowtail's daughter, home on a vacation, she must not
be allowed to know that Josie was conducting a case against her father.
Otherwise she might interfere and spoil everything. She knew Nan of old
and respected her keen intelligence. Once, when they had been pitted
against each other, Josie had won; but she was not sure she could
defeat Nan a second time. Therefore it was imperative that old Cragg's
daughter remain in ignorance of the fact that Josie was awaiting
reinforcements from Washington in order to arrest Nan's father as a
counterfeiter. Also Josie realized instantly that Ingua was likely to
tell her mother all she knew about Joselyn, including the story she had
told Josie; so, without hesitation she answered Nan's question with
apparent frankness:

"Really, Nan, I came here on a wild-goose chase. A man named Ned
Joselyn had mysteriously disappeared and his wife feared he had met
with foul play. I traced him to this place and as Colonel Hathaway and
Mary Louise were living here--in Mrs. Joselyn's own house, by the way--
I had myself invited as their guest. Well, the long and short of it is
that Joselyn isn't murdered, after all. He simply skipped, and since I
came here to worry my poor brain over the fellow he has been
discovered, still in hiding but very much alive."

"You suspected my father of killing him?"

"I did; and so did others; but it seems he didn't. But, even with that
precious bubble burst, Mary Louise insists on my staying for a visit;
so here I am, and your little girl has become my friend."

Ingua knew this story to be quite correct, as far as it regarded her
grandfather and Ned Joselyn. Its straightforward relation renewed her
confidence in Josie. But Nan knew more than Josie thought she did,
having intercepted the girl's telegram to her father; so she said with
a slight sneer which she took no pains to conceal:

"You're a clever girl, Josie O'Gorman; a mighty clever girl. You're so
clever that I wouldn't be surprised if it tripped you, some day, and
landed you on your pug nose."

Which proved that Nan was _not_ clever, for Josie's indulgent smile
masked the thought: "She knows all and is here to defend her father. I
must look out for Nan, for she has a notion I'm still on the track of
Hezekiah Cragg."

CHAPTER XXIII
PECULIAR PEOPLE

Old Swallowtail came home at about four o'clock in the afternoon. The
day was hot, yet the old man seemed neither heated nor wearied. Without
a word to his daughter or Ingua he drew a chair to the little shady
porch and sat down in their company. Nan was mending her child's old
frock; Ingua sat thinking.

For half an hour, perhaps, silence was maintained by all. Then Nan
turned and asked:

"Have you covered your tracks?"

He turned his glassy, expressionless eyes toward her.

"My tracks, as you call them," said he, "have been laid for forty years
or more. They are now ruts. I cannot obliterate them in a day."

The woman studied his face thoughtfully.

"You are not worrying over your probable arrest?"

"No."

"Then it's all right," said she, relieved. "You're a foxy old rascal,
Dad, and you've held your own for a good many years. I guess you don't
need more than a word of warning."

He made no reply, his eyes wandering along the path to the bridge. Mary
Louise was coming their way, walking briskly. Her steps slowed a bit as
she drew nearer, but she said in an eager voice:

"Oh, Mrs. Scammel, Josie has told me you are here and who you are.
Isn't it queer how lives get tangled up? But I remember you with
gratitude and kindliest thoughts, because you were so considerate of my
dear Gran'pa Jim. And to think that you are really Ingua's mother!"

Nan rose and took the girl's hands in her own.

"I fear I've been a bad mother to my kid," she replied, "but I thought
she was all right with her grandfather and happy here. I shall look
after her better in the future."

Mary Louise bowed to Mr. Cragg, who nodded his head in acknowledgment.
Then she sat down beside Ingua.

"Are you plannin' to take me away from here, Mama?" asked the child.

"Wouldn't you rather be with me than with your grandfather?" returned
Nan with a smile.

"I dunno," said Ingua seriously. "You're a detective, an' I don't like
detections. You ain't much like a mother to me, neither, ner I don't
know much about you. I dunno yet whether I'm goin' to like you or not."

A wave of color swept over Nan's face; Mary Louise was shocked; the old
man turned his inscrutable gaze down the path once more.

"I like it here," continued the child, musingly: "Gran'dad makes me
work, but he don't bother me none 'cept when the devils get, hold o'
him. I 'member that you git the devils, too, once in awhile, Marm, an'
they're about as fierce as Gran'dad's is. An' I gets 'em 'cause I'm a
Cragg like the rest o' you, an' devils seem to be in the Cragg blood.
I've a notion it's easier to stand the devils in the country here, than
in the city where you live."

Nan didn't know whether to be amused or angry.

"Yet you tried to run away once," she reminded Ingua, "and it was Mary
Louise who stopped you. You told me of this only an hour ago.

"Didn't I say the devils pick on _me_ sometimes?" demanded the girl.
"An' Mary Louise was right. She fought the devils for me, and I'm glad
she did, 'cause I've had a good time with her ever since," and she
pressed Mary Louise's hand gratefully.

Her child's frankness was indeed humiliating to Nan Scammel, who was by
no means a bad woman at heart and longed to win the love and respect of
her little girl. Ingua's frank speech had also disturbed Mary Louise,
and made her sorry for both the child and her mother. Old Swallowtail's
eyes lingered a moment on Ingua's ingenuous countenance but he
exhibited no emotion whatever.

"You're a simple little innocent," remarked Nan to Ingua, after a
strained pause. "You know so little of the world that your judgment is
wholly unformed. I've a notion to take you to Washington and buy you a
nice outfit of clothes--like those of Mary Louise, you know--and put
you into a first-class girls' boarding-school. Then you'll get
civilized, and perhaps amount to something."

"I'd like that," said Ingua, with a first display of enthusiasm; "but
who'd look after Gran'dad?"

"Why, we must provide for Dad in some way, of course," admitted Nan
after another pause. "I can afford to hire a woman to keep house for
him, if I hold my present job. I suppose he has a hoard of money hidden
somewhere, but that's no reason he wouldn't neglect himself and starve
if left alone. And, if he's really poor, I'm the one to help him. How
does that arrangement strike you, Ingua?"

"It sounds fine," replied the girl, "but any woman that'd come _here_
to work, an' would stan' Gran'dad's devils, wouldn't amount to much,
nohow. If we're goin' to move to the city," she added with a sigh,
"let's take Gran'dad with us."

This conversation was becoming too personal for Mary Louise to endure
longer. They talked of Mr. Cragg just as if he were not present,
ignoring him as he ignored them. With an embarrassed air Mary Louise
rose.

"I must go now," said she. "I just ran over to welcome you, Mrs.
Scammel, and to ask you and Ingua to dine with us to-morrow night. Will
you come? Josie O'Gorman is with us, you know, and I believe you are
old friends."

Nan hesitated a moment.

"Thank you," she replied, "we'll be glad to come. You've been mighty
good to my little girl and I am grateful. Please give my regards to
Colonel Hathaway."

When Mary Louise had gone the three lapsed into silence again. Ingua
was considering, in her childish but practical way, the proposed
changes in her life. The mother was trying to conquer her annoyance at
the child's lack of filial affection, tacitly admitting that the blame
was not Ingua's. The old man stared at the path. Whatever his thoughts
might be he displayed no hint of their nature.

Presently there appeared at the head of the path, by the bridge, the
form of a stranger, a little man who came on with nervous, mincing
steps. He was dressed in dandified fashion, with tall silk hat, a
gold-headed cane and yellow kid gloves. Almost had he reached the
porch when suddenly he stopped short, looked around in surprise and
ejaculated:

"Bless me--bless me! I--I've made a mistake. This is a private path to
your house. No thoroughfare. Dear me, what an error; an unpardonable
error. I hope you will excuse me--I--I hope so!"

"To be sure we will," replied Nan with a laugh, curiously eyeing the
dapper little man. "The only way out, sir, is back by the bridge."

"Thank you. Thank you very much," he said earnestly. "I--I am indulging
in a stroll and--and my mind wandered, as did my feet. I--I am an
invalid in search of rest. Thank you. Good afternoon."

He turned around and with the same mincing, regular steps retreated
along the path. At the bridge he halted as if undecided, but finally
continued along the country road past the Kenton Place.

Ingua laughed delightedly at the queer man. Nan smiled. Old Swallowtail
had altered neither his position nor his blank expression.

"He's a queer fish, ain't he?" remarked the girl. "He's pretty lively
for an invalid what's lookin' for rest. I wonder when he landed, an'
where he's stoppin'."

Something in the child's remark made Nan thoughtful. Presently she laid
down her work and said:

"I believe I'll take a little walk, myself, before dark. Want to go
along, Ingua?"

Ingua was ready. She had on her new dress and hoped they might meet
someone whom she knew. They wandered toward the town, where most of the
inhabitants were sitting outf of doors--a Sunday afternoon custom. Jim
Bennett, in his shirtsleeves, was reading a newspaper in front of the
postoffice; Sol Jerrems and his entire family occupied the platform
before the store, which was of course locked; Nance Milliker was
playing the organ in the brown house around the corner, and in front of
the hotel sat Mary Ann Hopper in her rocking-chair.

Nan strolled the length of the street, startling those natives who had
formerly known her, Ingua nodded and smiled at everyone. Mary Ann
Hopper called, as they passed her: "Hullo, Ingua. Where'd ye git the
new duds?"

"Miss Huckins made 'em," answered Ingua proudly.

"I guess I'll go and shake hands with Mrs. Hopper," said Nan. "Don't
you remember me, Mary Ann? I'm Nan Cragg."

"Gee! so y'are," exclaimed Mary Ann wonderingly. "We all 'spicioned you
was dead, long ago."

"I'm home for a visit. You folks seem prosperous. How's business?"

"Pretty good. We got a new boarder to-day, a feller with bum nerves who
come from the city. Gee! but he's togged out t' kill. Got money, too,
an' ain't afraid to spend it. He paid Dad in advance."

"That's nice," said Nan. "What's his name?"

"It's a funny name, but I can't remember it. Ye kin see it on the
register."

Nan went inside, leaving Ingua with Mary Ann, and studied the name on
the register long and closely.

"No," she finally decided, "Lysander isn't calculated to arouse
suspicion. He wears a wig, I know, but that is doubtless due to vanity
and not a disguise. I at first imagined it was someone O'Gorman had
sent down here to help Josie, but none of our boys would undertake such
a spectacular personation, bound to attract attention. This fellow will
become the laughing-stock of the whole town and every move he makes
will be observed. I'm quite sure there is nothing dangerous in the
appearance here of Mr. Lysander Antonius Sinclair."

She chatted a few minutes with Mrs. Hopper, whom she found in the
kitchen, and then she rejoined Ingua and started homeward. Scarcely
were mother and child out of sight when Mr. Sinclair came mincing along
from an opposite direction and entered the hotel. He went to his room
but soon came down and in a querulous voice demanded his omelet,
thanking the landlady again and again for promising it in ten minutes.

He amused them all very much, stating that an omelet for an evening
meal was "an effective corrective of tired nerves" and would enable him
to sleep soundly all night.

"I sleep a great deal," he announced after he had finished his supper
and joined Mr. Hopper on the porch. "When I have smoked a cigar--in
which luxury I hope you will join me, sir--I shall retire to my couch
and rest in the arms of Morpheus until the brilliant sun of another day
floods the countryside."

"P'r'aps it'll rain," suggested the landlord.

"Then Nature's tears will render us sweetly sympathetic."

He offered his cigar case to Mr. Hopper, who recognized a high priced
cigar and helped himself.

"Didn't see anything to make ye nervous, durin' yer walk, did ye?" he
inquired, lighting the weed.

"Very little. It seems a nice, quiet place. Only once was I annoyed. I
stumbled into a private path, just before I reached the river, and--and
had to apologize."

"Must 'a' struck Ol' Swallertail's place," remarked the landlord.

"Old Swallowtail? Old Swallowtail? And who is he?" queried the
stranger.

Hopper was a born gossip, and if there was any one person he loved to
talk of and criticize and "pick to pieces" it was Old Swallowtail. So
he rambled on for a half hour, relating the Cragg history in all its
details, including the story of Ingua and Ingua's mother, Nan Cragg,
who had married some unknown chap named Scammel, who did not long
survive the ceremony.

Mr. Sinclair listened quietly, seeming to enjoy his cigar more than he
did the Cragg gossip. He asked no questions, letting the landlord
ramble on as he would, and finally, when Hopper had exhausted his fund
of fact and fiction, which were about evenly mixed, his guest bade him
good night and retired to his private room.

"It ain't eight o'clock, yet," said the landlord to his wife, "but a
feller with nerves is best asleep. An' when he's asleep he won't waste
our kerosene."

No, Mr. Sinclair didn't waste the Hopper kerosene. He had a little
pocket arrangement which supplied him with light when, an hour before
midnight, he silently rose, dressed himself and prepared to leave the
hotel. He was not attired in what Mary Ann called his "glad rags" now,
but in a dark gray suit of homespun that was nearly the color of the
night. The blond wig was carefully locked in a suit case, a small black
cap was drawn over his eyes, and thus--completely transformed--Mr.
Hopper's guest had no difficulty in gaining the street without a
particle of noise betraying him to the family of his host.

He went to the postoffice, pried open a window, unlocked the mail bag
that was ready for Jim Bennett to carry to the morning train at
Chargrove and from it abstracted a number of letters which he unsealed
and read with great care. They had all been written and posted by
Hezekiah Cragg. The man spent a couple of hours here, resealing the
envelopes neatly and restoring them to the mail bag, after which, he
attached the padlock and replaced the bag in exactly its former
position. When he had left the little front room which was devoted by
the Bennetts to the mail service, the only evidence of his visit was a
bruised depression beside the window-sash which was quite likely to
escape detection.

After this the stranger crept through the town and set off at a brisk
pace toward the west, taking the road over the bridge and following it
to the connecting branch and thence to the lane. A half hour later he
was standing in old Cragg's stone lot and another hour was consumed
among the huge stones by the hillside--the place where Josie had
discovered the entrance to the underground cave. Mr. Sinclair did not
discover the entrance, however, so finally he returned to town and
mounted the stairs beside Sol Jerrem's store building to the upper
hallway.

In five minutes he was inside of Cragg's outer office; in another five
minutes he had entered the inner office. There he remained until the
unmistakable herald of dawn warned him to be going. However, when he
left the building there was no visible evidence of his visit. He was in
his own room and in bed long before Mrs. Hopper gave a final snore and
wakened to light the kitchen fire and prepare for the duties of the
day.

CHAPTER XXIV
FACING DANGER

Nan's presence at Cragg's Crossing rendered Josie O'Gorman uneasy. She
had the Cragg case so well in hand, now, and the evidence in her
possession was so positively incriminating, in her judgment, that she
did not like to be balked by a clever female detective from her
father's own office. She had little doubt but Nan would do all in her
power to save old Hezekiah Cragg from the penalty of his misdeeds, and
her greatest fear was that he might utterly disappear before O'Gorman
sent her assistance.

With this fear growing in her mind, on Monday she determined to send
another telegram to her father, urging haste, so she obtained
permission from the Colonel to have Uncle Eben drive her and Mary
Louise to the city, there being no telegraph office at Chargrove
Station. But she timed the trip when no trains would stop at Chargrove
during her absence and at the telegraph office she sent an imperative
message to John O'Gorman at Washington demanding instant help. Since
all counterfeiting cases belonged distinctly to the Secret Service
Department she had little doubt her father would respond as soon as the
affairs at the office would permit him to do so. But the delay was
exasperating, nevertheless. Indeed, Josie was so sure that the crisis
of her case was imminent that she determined to watch old Cragg's house
every night until his arrest could be made. If he attempted to escape
she would arrest him herself, with the aid of the little revolver she
carried in her dress pocket.

On their return journey they overtook Mr. Sinclair at about a mile from
the Crossing. They had never seen the man before, but when he signaled
them. Uncle Eben slowed up the machine and stopped beside him.

"I beg a thousand pardons," said the dapper little stranger, removing
his silk hat and bowing profoundly to the two girls, "but would you
mind taking me to the town? I--I--fear I have turned my ankle; not
seriously, you know, but it is uncomfortable; so if I may sit beside
your chauffeur the favor will be greatly appreciated."

"To be sure," said Mary Louise with ready. "Can you get in unaided, or
do you wish Uncle Eben to assist you?"

"Thank you; thank you a thousand times, young lady," said he, climbing
into the front seat. "I'm stopping at the hotel," he explained, as the
car again started, "for rest and quiet, because of my nervous
condition. My doctor said I would suffer a nervous breakdown if I did
not seek rest and quiet in the seclusion of some country village. So I
came here, and--it's secluded; it really is."

"I hope your ankle is not seriously injured, sir," said Mary Louise.
"Take the gentleman to the hotel, Uncle Eben."

"Thank you," said the little man, and fussily removing a card-case from
an inner pocket he added: "My card, please," and handed it to Mary
Louise.

Josie glanced at the card, too. She had been regarding the stranger
thoughtfully, with the same suspicions of him that Nan had formerly
entertained. The card was not printed; it was engraved: one point in
the man's favor. His blond hair was a wig; she had a good view of the
back of it and was not to be deceived. But perhaps the moustache, which
matched the hair, was genuine. Carefully considering the matter, she
did not think anyone would come to Cragg's Crossing in disguise unless
he were a confederate of Hezekiah Cragg, helping to circulate the
counterfeit money. This odd Mr. Sinclair might be such a person and
working under the direction of Ned Joselyn. Joselyn was in hiding, for
some unexplained reason; Sinclair could appear openly. There might be
nothing in this supposition but Josie determined to keep an eye on the
nervous stranger.

He was profuse in his thanks when they let him out at Hopper's Hotel
and Uncle Eben chuckled all the way home.

"Dat man am shuah some mighty 'stravagant punkins, in he's own mind,"
he remarked. "He oughteh git he's pictur' took in dat outfit, Ma'y
Weeze, jes' to show how 'dic'lous a white man can look. He'll have all
de kids in town a-chasin' of him, if he gits loose on de streets. All
he needs is a brass ban' to be a circus parade."

Nan and Ingua came over to dinner that evening and Josie was very
cordial to Ingua's mother, who treated her chief's daughter with the
utmost friendliness. Both Ingua and Mary Louise were surprised by their
politeness and comradeship, but neither of the principals was deceived
by such a display. Each was on her guard, but realized it was wise to
appear friendly.

Monday night Josie lurked in the shadows of the river bank until
daybreak, never relaxing her espionage of the Cragg house for a moment.
All was quiet, however.

Tuesday passed without event. Tuesday night Josie was at her post
again, her eyes fixed on the dim light that shone from Mr. Cragg's
room. Had she been able to see through the walls of the cottage she
would have found the old man seated in his private apartment opposite
his daughter. Could she have heard their conversation--the low,
continuous hum of Old Swallowtail's voice, broken only by an occasional
question from Nan--she would surely have been astonished. Nan was not
much astonished, save at the fact that her father had at last
voluntarily confided to her the strange story of his life, a life
hitherto unknown to her. She was not easily surprised, but she was
greatly impressed, and when he finally rose from his chair and went out
into the night Nan sat in meditation for some time before she followed
him. Ingua had long been asleep.

Josie, lurking outside, had not expected Old Swallowtail to leave the
premises unless he planned to run away. His delivery of counterfeit
money to Ned Joselyn had been of too recent a date to render it
necessary that he revisit his stone-yard for some time to come, she
argued; yet to-night, at a little after eleven o'clock, she saw his
shadow pass from the house and take the path to the bridge.

Josie followed. At the bridge Mr. Cragg turned westward and at once she
surmised he was bound for his rocky five acres. The old man walked
deliberately, never thinking to look behind him. He might not have
observed anything suspicious had he turned, but a hundred feet behind
him came Josie O'Gorman, deftly dodging from tree to bush to keep in
the dark places by the wayside. And behind Josie silently moved a
little man in gray homespun, whose form it would be difficult to
distinguish even while he stood in the open. Josie, like the prey she
stalked, was too occupied to look behind.

Old Swallowtail reached the stone-yard and climbed the fence. While he
paused there Josie crept close and noticed a light which suddenly
flashed from the hillside. It was a momentary flash and not very
brilliant, but she knew it was a signal because the old man at once
started forward. She let him lead on until he disappeared among the
rocks and then she boldly followed. She knew now where the secret
entrance to the cavern was located.

Threading her way cautiously through the maze of rocks the girl finally
reached a slanting shelf beneath which she crept on hands and knees. At
its farthest edge was a square door of solid oak, rather crudely
constructed but thick and substantial. This door stood ajar.

Josie, crouching beside the secret entrance, wondered what she ought to
do. The regular thumping, as of machinery, which she had heard once
before, now began and continued without interruption. Here was an
opportunity to catch the counterfeiters redhanded, but she was one
small girl as opposed to a gang of desperate criminals.

"Oh, dear!" she whispered, half aloud, "I wish father had paid some
attention to my telegram."

"He did," responded a soft voice beside her.

CHAPTER XXV
FATHER AND DAUGHTER

The girl would have screamed had not a hand been swiftly laid across
her lips to stifle the sound. She tried to rise, but the shelf of rock
beneath which she crouched prevented her. However, she struggled until
an arm was passed firmly around her waist and a stern voice said
warningly:

"Josie! Control yourself."

Instantly her form relaxed and became inert. She breathed hard and her
heart still raced, but she was no longer afraid.

"Kiss me, Daddy!" she whispered, and the man obeyed with a chuckle of
delight.

There was silence for a time, while she collected herself. Then she
asked in a businesslike tone:

"When did you get here?"

"Sunday," said he.

"Good gracious! You must have caught the first train after getting my
wire."

"I did. A certain gang of unknown counterfeiters has been puzzling me a
good deal lately, and I fancied you had located the rascals."

"I have," said Josie exultantly.

"Where?" he asked.

"The rascals are down below us this very minute, Daddy. They are at our
mercy."

"Old Cragg and Jim Bennett?"

"Yes; and perhaps others."

"M-m-m," mumbled O'Gorman, "you've a lot to learn yet, Josie. You're
quick; you're persevering; you're courageous. But you lack judgment."