 CHAPTER XXIII 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 Grandpa Jim, and to think that you are really Inge'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. Craig, who nodded his head in acknowledgment. Then she sat down beside Inge. Are you planning to take me away from here, Mama? asked the child. Would you rather be with me than your grandfather, returned to Nan with a smile? I don't know, said Inge, seriously. You're a detective, and I don't like detections. You ain't much like a mother to me, neither, nor I don't know much about you. I don't know yet whether I'm going 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. Grandad makes me work, but he don't bother me none, except when the devils get hold of him. I remember that you get the devils too once in a while, Mom, and they're about as fierce as grandad's is. And I get some, because I'm a crab like the rest of ya, and devils seem to be in crab blood. Of 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 Inge, 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. And Mary Louise was right. She fought the devils for me, and I'm glad she did, because 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's scammel, who was by no means a bad woman at heart, and longed to win the love in respect of her little girl. Inge'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 Inge's ingenious countenance, but he exhibited no emotion whatever. You're a simple little innocent, remarked Nan to Inge after a strained pause. You know so little of the world that your judgment is wholly uninformed. 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 girl's boarding school. Then you'll get civilized, and perhaps amount to something. I'd like that, said Inge with the first display of enthusiasm, but who'd look after grandad? 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 horde 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, Inge? It sounds fine, replied the girl, but any woman that had come here to work and would stand grandad's devils wouldn't amount to much know-how. If we're going to move to the city, she added with a sigh, let's take grandad with us. This conversation was becoming too personal for Mary Louise to endure longer. They talked of Mr. Crag, 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. Crag, and to ask you and Inge to dine with us to-morrow night. Will you come? Josiah Gorman is with us, you know, and I believe you are old friends. Nan hesitated a moment. Thank you, she replied. We will 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. Inge 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 Inge was. 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 golden-headed cane, and yellow kid-gloves. Almost he had reached the porch when suddenly he stopped short. Looked around and surprised 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 unpartnable 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 looking for rest. I wonder when he landed and where he's stopping. 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, for most of the inhabitants were sitting out of doors, a Sunday afternoon custom. Jim Bennett, in his shirt sleeves, was reading a newspaper in front of the post office. Saul Jerams and his entire family occupied the platform before the store, which was, of course, logged. Nan's 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 nodding and smiling at everyone. Mary Ann Hopper called as they passed her, Hello, Ingua, where'd you get the new duds? Miss Huckins made them, 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 Craig. Gee, so you're, exclaimed Mary Ann, wonderingly. We all spished you was dead long ago. I'm home for a visit. You folks seem prosperous. How's business? Pretty good. We got a new border today, a fellow with bummed nerves who come from the city. Gee, but he's tugged out to kill. Got money, too. It 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. You can 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 old 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 omelette, thanking the landlady again and again for promising it in ten minutes. He amused them all very much, stating that an omelette for an evening meal was an effective corrective of tired nerves, and would enable him to sleep soundly all night. A 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. Perhaps it will rain, suggested the landlord. Then nature's tears will render us sweetly sympathetic. He offered his cigar case to Mr. Hopper, who he recognized a high-priced cigar and helped himself. Didn't see anything to make you nervous during your walk, did ya? he inquired, lighting the weed. Very little. It seems a nice quiet place. Only once I was annoyed. I stumbled into a private path just before I reached the river and—and had to apologize. Muster struck Old Swallow-Tales' place, remarked the landlord. Old Swallow-Tale? Old Swallow-Tale? 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 Swallow-Tale. So he rambled on for half an hour, relating the crag history in all its details, including the story of Ingwa and Ingwa's mother, Nan Craig, 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 crag gossip. He asked no questions, letting the landlord ramble on as he would, and, finally, when Hopper had exhausted his fun to fact and fiction, which were about evenly mixed, his guest bad him good night and retired to his private room. It ain't eight o'clock yet, sent the landlord to his wife, but a fellow with nerves is best asleep, and 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 a 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 blonde wig was carefully locked in a suitcase, 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 post office, 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 Craig. The man spent a couple of hours there, 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 dependence 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 an hour later he was standing in old Craig'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 Jerem's store-building to the upper hallway. In five minutes he was inside of Craig'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 broom 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. She had the Craig 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 Craig 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 eminent that she determined to watch Old Craig'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 about a mile from the crossing. They had never seen the man before, but when he signaled them Uncle Ebbon 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 to my ankle. Not seriously, you know, but it is uncomfortable. So if I may sit beside your chauffeur the favour will be greatly appreciated. To be sure, said Mary Louise, with ready, can you get in unaided, or do you wish Uncle Ebbon to assist you? Thank you, thank you a thousand times, young lady," he said, 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 Ebbon. Thank you, said the little man, and fussily removing a card case from his 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 favour. His blonde 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 his hair, was genuine. Carefully considering the matter, she did not think anyone would come to Craig's crossing in disguise, unless he were a confederate of Hezekiah Craig, helping to circulate the counterfeit money. This odd Mr. Sinclair might be such a person and working under the direction of Ned Jocelyn. Jocelyn 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 profusely in his thanks when they let him out at Hopper's Hotel, and Uncle Evan chuckled all the way home. That man, I'm sure, some mighty stravagant pumpkins in his own mind, he remarked. He ought to get his picture-took and that outfit, Mary Louise, just as so how-diculous a white man can look. He'll have all the kids in the town a-chasing of him if he gets loose on the streets. All he needs is the brass band to be a circus parade. Evan and Ingwa came over to dinner that evening, and Josie was very cordial to Ingwa's mother, who treated her chief's daughter with the utmost friendliness. Both Ingwa and Mary Louise were surprised by their politeness and comradeship, but neither of the principles 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 crags' house for a moment. Mal 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 surely would have been astonished. Nan was not much astonished, give it 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. Ingwa 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 Jocelyn had been of too recent a date to render it necessary that he revisit his stonyard 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 beside 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 stocked, was too occupied to look behind. Old Swallowtail reached the stonyard 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 red-handed, 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. 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 business-like tone, When did you get here? Monday, 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 crag and Jim Bennett. Yes, and perhaps others. Hmm! mumbled, O'Gorman. You've a lot to learn yet, Josie. You're quick. You're persevering. You're courageous. But you lack judgment. Do you mean that you doubt my evidence? she asked indignantly. I do. I have the counterfeit bill here in my pocket, which crag tried to pass on the storekeeper, she said. Let me see it. Josie searched and found the bill. O'Gorman flashed a circle of light on it and studied it attentively. Here, he said, passing it back to her. Don't lose it, Josie. It's worth ten dollars. Isn't it counterfeit? she asked, trying to swallow a big lump that rose in her throat. It is one of the recent issues, good as gold. She sat silent, rigid with disappointment. Never had she been as miserable as at this moment. She felt like crying, and a sob really did become audible in spite of her effort to suppress it. Again O'Gorman passed his arm affectionately around her waist and held her close while she tried to think what it all meant. Was that bill your only basis of suspicion, dear? he presently inquired. No, indeed. Do you hear that noise? What are they doing down there? I imagine they are running a printing press, he replied. Exactly, she said triumphantly. And why do these men operate a printing press in a secret cavern unless they are printing counterfeit money? Ah! there you have allowed your imagination to jump, returned her father. Haven't I warned you against the danger of imagination? It leads to theory, and theory leads nine times in ten to failure. All evidence is often valuable, declared Josie. It often convicts, he admitted, but I am never sure of its justice. Whenever facts are obtainable I prefer facts. Can you explain, she said somewhat coldly, for she felt she was suffering a professional rebuke. What those men below us are printing if not counterfeit money? I can, said he. And you have been down there investigating? Not yet, he answered coolly. Then you must be theorizing, Daddy. Not at all. If you know you have two marbles in one pocket and two more in another pocket, you may be positive there are four altogether, whether you bother to count them individually or not. She pondered this, trying to understand what he meant. You don't know old Craig as well as I do, she asserted. Let us argue that point, he said quickly. What do you know about him? I know him to be an eccentric old man, educated and shrewd, with a cruel and mysterious temper. I know that he has secluded himself in this half-forgotten town for many years, engaged in some secret occupation which he fears to have discovered. I am sure that he is capable of any crime and therefore, even if that bill is good, I am none the less positive that counterfeiting is his business. No other supposition fix the facts in the case. Is that all you know about old Craig? asked O'Gorman. Isn't it enough to warrant his arrest? she retorted. Not quite. You've forgotten to mention one thing among his characteristics, Josie. What is that? Craig is an Irishman, just as I am. What has that to do with it? Only this. His sympathies have always been interested on behalf of his downtrodden countrymen. I won't admit they are downtrodden, Josie, even to you, but Craig thinks they are. His father was an immigrant, and Hezekiah himself was born in Dublin, and came to this country while an infant. He imagines he is Irish yet. Perhaps he is. There was a note of bewilderment in the girl's voice as she asked. What has his sympathy for the Irish to do with this case? Hezekiah Craig, explained to O'Gorman, speaking slowly, is that the head of an organization known as the Champions of Irish Liberty. For many years this CIL fraternity has been growing in numbers and power, fed by money largely supplied by Craig himself. I have proof indeed that he has devoted his entire fortune to this cause, as well as all returns from his business enterprises. He lives in comparative poverty that the Champions of Irish Liberty may finally perfect their plans to free Ireland, and allow the Irish to establish a self-governing republic. But why all this secrecy, Daddy? she asked, wonderingly. His work here is a violation of neutrality. It is contrary to the treaty between our country and England. According to our laws Hezekiah Craig and his followers, in seeking to deprive England of her Irish possession, are guilty of treason. Could he be prosecuted for sympathizing with his own race? No. For sending them arms and ammunition to fight with, yes, and that is what they have been doing. Then you can arrest him for this act? I can, said O'Gorman, but I'll be hanged if I will, Josie. Craig is an idealist. The cost to which he has devoted his life and fortune with a steadfast loyalty that is worthy of respect is doomed to failure. The man's every thought is concentrated on his futile scheme, and to oppose him at this juncture would drive him mad. He isn't doing any real harm to our country, and even England won't suffer much through his conspiracy. But allowing for the folly of his attempt to make his people free and independent, we must admire his lofty philanthropy, his self-sacrifice, his dogged perseverance in promoting the cause so near and dear to his heart. Let some other Federal officer arrest him if he dares. It's no work for no O'Gorman. Josie had encountered many surprises during her brief career as an embryo detective, but this revelation was the crowning astonishment of all. All her carefully prepared theories concerning Hezekiah Craig had been shattered by her father's terse disclosure, and instead of hating old Swallowtail, she suddenly found sympathy for his ideals welling in her heart. Josie O'Gorman was Irish, too. She pondered deeply the skilled detective's assertions and tried to fit them to her knowledge of old Craig's character. The stories seemed to account for much, but not all. After a time she said, But this mysterious business of his, which causes him to write so many letters and to receive so many answers to them, what connection can it have with the champions of Irish liberty? Very little, said her father, except that it enables Craig to earn more money to feed into the ever-hungry maw of the cause. Craig's business is one of the most unique things of the sort that I have ever encountered. And while it is quite legitimate, he is obliged to keep it secret so as not to involve his many customers in adverse criticism. What on earth can it be? It pertains to heaven, not earth, my dear, said O'Gorman dryly. Craig was educated for the ministry or the priesthood. I can't discover whether he was Catholic or Protestant, but it seems he wasn't fitted for the church. Perhaps he already had in mind the idea of devoting his life to the land that gave him birth. Anyhow, he was a well-versed theologian and exceptionally brilliant in theses. So when his money gave out he began writing sermons for others to preach, doing a mail-order business and selling his products to those preachers who are too busy or too lazy to write their own sermons. He has a sort of syndicate established and his books, which I have examined with admiration and wonder, prove he supplies sermons to preachers of all denominations throughout the United States. This involves a lot of correspondence. Every week he writes a new sermon, prints a large number of copies, and sends one to each of his clients. Of course he furnishes but one man in a town or city with his products, but there are good many towns and cities to supply. Is he printing sermons now? asked Josie. Perhaps so, or it may be that he is printing some circular to be distributed to the members of the CIL. Jim Bennett, the husband of the Postmistress here, was once a practical printer, and he is a staunch member of the Irish fraternity. Craig has known of this underground cabin for years, and at one time it was a regular meeting-clays for his order of champions. So he bought a printing press and, to avoid the prying eyes of his neighbors, established it here. That is the whole story of Craig's crime, Josie, and it is very simple when once fully explained. Do you mean to say you've discovered all this in the two days since you've been here? asked the girl in amazement. Every bit of it. I came prepared to arrest a gang of counterfeiters, and stumbled on this very interesting, but quite harmless plot. Where have you been hiding since Sunday, she inquired? Why, I didn't hide at all, he asserted. Don't you remember giving me a ride yesterday in the Hathaway automobile? Josie sat silent. She was glad it was so dark under that shelf of rock, for she would rather her father did not read her humiliation in self-approach. Daddy, she said with a despairing accent, I'm going to study to be a cook or a stenographer. I'll never make a decent detective, like Nan, for instance. A gormon laughed. Poor Nan, he exclaimed. She's been more befuddled than you over this mysterious case. And Craig is her own father, too. Come, Josie, it's getting late. Let's go home. CHAPTER XXVI. THE PLOT. When they were over the stones and in the lane again, walking arm in arm toward the village, Josie's logical mind turned from her own failure to a consideration of the story her father had just told her. I can't understand, she remarked, how Jocelyn came into this affair, what happened to him, or why he is once more the secret associate of old Craig. Jocelyn, said the old detective, is a clever grafter, in other words an unmitigated scoundrel. Now do you understand? Not quite, confessed Josie. He's Irish. Isn't his name scotch? Yes, but Jocelyn isn't his name. If you're inclined to pick up his record and follow it through, you'll probably find him pursuing his various adventures under many aliases. He doesn't belong in this country, you know, has only been here a few years, so his adventures probably would cover two continents. The fellow always manages to keep just within our laws, although sometimes he gets dangerously near the edge. The world is full of men like Jocelyn. They don't interest me. Then he belongs to the band of champions? asked Josie. Yes. In going over Craig's books and papers in his private office the other night, I found sufficient references to Ned Jocelyn to figure out his story with a fair degree of accuracy, said a Mormon. He was born in Ireland, got into trouble over there with the authorities, and fled to America, where he met Annabelle Kenton and married her. Getting in touch with old Swallowtail, he joined the champions and attended to the outside business for Mr. Craig, purchasing supplies and forwarding them with money to the Patriots in Ireland. I suppose he made a fair rake off in all these dealings, but that did not satisfy him. He induced Craig to invest in some wildcat schemes, promising him tremendous earnings which could be applied to the cause. Whether he really invested the money turned over to him, or kept it for himself as a subject for doubt. But it seems the old man soon suspected him of double dealing, and they had so many quarrels that Craig finally threatened to turn him over to the authorities for extradition. That was when our precious Ned thought it wise to disappear. But afterward another peace was patched up, owing largely to the fact that Jocelyn knew so much of the workings of the secret order that it was safer to have him for a friend than an enemy. I'm thinking of his poor wife, said Josie. Does she know now where her husband is? I think not. At first, in order to win the confidence of old Craig, Ned applied considerable of his wife's money to the cause, and while she would probably forgive his defocations he thinks it wiser to keep aloof from her. She foolishly trusted him to settle her mother's estate, and I'm sure he managed to settle most of it on himself. His value to Craig lay in his ability to visit the different branches of the champions, which are pretty well scattered throughout the United States, and keep them in touch one with another. Also he purchased arms and ammunition to be forwarded secretly to Ireland. So you see it was quite impossible for the old man to break with him holy, rascal though he knows him to be. I see, said Josie, Jocelyn has him in his power. Entirely so. A hint from him to the authorities would result in embargo on any further shipments to the rebels in Ireland, and so completely ruin the usefulness of the order of champions. The fellow seems to be a thorn deeply embedded in the sight of old Swallowtail, who will suffer anything to promote the cause of Irish liberty. Ingoe thinks her grandfather tried to kill Ned at one time, remarked the girl. It's a wonder with his rabid temper that he didn't do so, said O'Gorman. But perhaps he realized that if he was hanged for Jocelyn's murder his beloved order would be without a head and in sorry straits. Thousands of Irishmen are feeding the funds of the champions, aside from what crag himself dumps into the pot. So the old fellow is in a respectable position and mustn't commit murder, however much he may long to, because it would jeopardize the fortunes of his associates. However, the end is not yet, and unless Jocelyn acts square in his future dealings he may yet meet with a tragic fate. I wonder what was in that package he took away with him the other night. I was sure at the time it was counterfeit money. It probably contained the monthly printed circular to the various branches of the order. Jim Bennett prints them in that underground cavern, and Ned Jocelyn sees they are distributed. Well, said Josie with a sigh, you've pricked my bubble, Daddy, and made me ashamed. With all my professed scorn of theories and my endeavours to avoid them I walked straight into the Theoretic Mire and stuck there. O'Gorman pressed her arm affectionately. Never you mind, my dear, in a consoling tone. You have learned a lesson that will be of great value to you in your future work. I dare not blame you, indeed, for I, myself, on the evidence you sent me, came rushing here on a wild goose-chase. One never knows what is on the other side of a page till he turns it, and if we detectives didn't have to turn so many pages, only to find them blank, we'd soon rid the country of its malifactors. But here we are at the Kenton Gateway. Go to bed, Josie, my dear, and pleasant dreams to you. Will I see you again? she asked. No, I'm off by the early train. But you must stay here and have your visit out with Mary Louise. It won't hurt you to have a free mind for a while. He kissed her tenderly, and she went in. CHAPTER XXVII. of Mary Louise and the Country by L. Frank Baum. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. CHAPTER XXVII. NAND'S TRIUMP. The night's events were not yet ended. An automobile left the edge of the stone-yard, followed a lane and turned into the main highway, where it encountered a woman standing in the middle of the road and waving her arms. She was distinctly visible in the moonlight. The man with the monocle slowed the car and came to a sudden stop, rather than run her down. What's the matter? he demanded impatiently. Wait a minute, I want to talk to you. Can't stop, he replied in a querulous tone. I've got fifty miles to make before daylight. Out of my way, woman. With a dexterous motion she opened the door and sprang into the seat beside him. Here! Get out of this! he cried. Drive on! she said calmly. It'll save time since you're in a hurry. Get out! I'm going to ride with you. Why bother to argue? He turned nervously in his seat to get a look at her, then shifted the clutch and slowly started the car. The woman sat quiet. While bumping over the uneven road at a reckless speed the driver turned at times to cast stealthy glances up the person beside him. Finally he asked, in exasperation, Do you know where I'm going? You haven't told me. Do you know who I am? How should I? Oh, very well, with a sigh of relief. But isn't this rather, uh, irregular? Barry. Again he drove for a time in silence. In the direction they were following they whirled by a village every three or four miles, but the country roads were deserted and the nearest city of any size lay a good fifty miles on. I don't know who you are, observed the woman presently, but I can hazard a guess. You call yourself Jocelyn, Ned Jocelyn, but that isn't your name. It's the name you married Annabelle Kenton Hunter, but it doesn't belong to you. He gave a roar of anger and started to slow down the car. Go ahead, she said, imperatively. I won't. You're going to get out of here, and lively too, or I'll throw you out. Do you feel anything against your side? She asked coolly. Yes, with a sudden start. It's the muzzle of a revolver. I think it's about opposite your heart and my finger is on the trigger. Go ahead. He turned the throttle and the car resumed its former speed. Who the deuce are you? he demanded in a voice that trembled slightly. Like yourself I have many names, she said. In Washington they call me Nan Shelly. At Cragg's Crossing I'm Mrs. Scammel, formerly Nan Cragg. Oh, ho! with a low whistle of astonishment. Nan Cragg, eh! So you've returned from your wanderings, have you, with a derisive sneer. For a time. But in wandering around I found my place in the world, and now I'm a lady detective, not an especially high-class occupation, but satisfactory as a breadwinner. I find I'm quite talented. I'm said to be a pretty fair detective. She could feel him tremble beside her. He moved away from her as far as he could, but the pressure against his side followed his movements. After a time he asked defiantly. Well, being a detective, what's your business with me? I hope you're not fool enough to think I'm a criminal. I don't think it. I know it. You're an unusual sort of criminal, too, she replied. You're mixed up in a somewhat lawless international plot, but it isn't my present business to bring you to book for that. What is your present business? To discover what you've done with my father's money. He laughed as if relieved. Spent it for the cause of Ireland. Part of it, perhaps. But the bulk of the money you've taken from the champions of Irish liberty, most of which came out of my father's own pocket, and practically all the money he gave to you to invest for him, you have withheld for your own use. You're crazy. I know the bank it's deposited in. Again he growled like a beast at bay. Whatever I have on deposit is to be applied to the cause, said he. It's reserved for future promotion. Have you seen today's papers, she inquired? No. The revolution in Ireland has already broken out. Great, Scott! There was sincere anxiety in his voice now. It is premature and will result in the annihilation of all your plans. Perhaps not. You know better, said she. Anyhow your actions are now blocked until we see how the rebellion fares. The Irish will have no further use for American money, I'm positive, so I insist that my father receive back the funds he has advanced to you, and especially his own money, which he gave you to invest and you never invested. Bah! If I offered him the money he wouldn't take it. Then I'll take it for him, she asserted. You'll give up that money because you know I can have you arrested for—well, let us say a breach of American neutrality. You are not a citizen of the United States. You were born in Ireland and have never been naturalized here. You seem well posted, he sneered. I belong to the government's secret service, and the bureau knows considerable, she replied, dryly. He remained silent for a time, his eyes fixed upon the road ahead. Then he said, The government didn't send you to get Craig's money away from me, nor did Craig send you. No, my father is afraid of you. He's been forced to trust you even when he knew you were a treacherous defaulter because of your threats to betray the cause. But you've been playing a dangerous game, and I believe my father would have killed you long ago if—well, if what? If you hadn't been his own nephew. He turned upon her with sudden fierceness. Look out, she called. I've not the same objection to killing my cousin. Your cousin? To be sure. You are the son of Peter Craig, my father's brother, who returned to Ireland many years ago when he was a young man. Ned Jocelyn is an assumed name. You are Ned Craig, condemned by the British government for high treason. You are known to be in America, but only I knew where to find you. Oh, you did, did you? Yes, all your various hiding places are well known to me. Confound you? Exactly. You'd like to murder me cousin Ned to stop my mouth, but I'll not give you the chance. And, really, we ought not to kill one another, for the Craig motto is a Craig for a Craig. That has probably influenced my poor father more than anything else in his dealings with you. He knew you are a Craig. Well, if I'm a Craig and you're a Craig, why don't you let me alone? Because the family motto was first ignored by yourself. For a long time he drove on without another word. Evidently he was in deep thought, and the constant pressure of the revolver against his side gave him ample food for reflection. Nan was thinking, too, quietly exulting the while. As a matter of fact she had hazarded guess after guess, during the interview, only to find she had hit the mark. She knew that Ned Craig had been condemned by the British government and was supposed to have escaped to America, but not until now was she sure of his identity with Ned Jocelyn. Her father had told her much, but not this. Her native shrewdness was alone responsible for the discovery. We're almost there, aren't we? asked Nan at last. Where? At the house where you're at present hiding. We've entered the city I see and it's almost daybreak. Well, I know the chief of police here. Am I to have the money, cousin Ned, or—'Of course,' he said hastily. It was nearly a month later when Mary Louise, walking down to the river on an afternoon, discovered Ingwes sitting on the opposite bank and listlessly throwing pebbles into the stream. She ran across the stepping-stones and joined her little friend. How is your grandfather this morning? she asked. I guess he's better, said Ingwes. He don't mumble so much about the lost cause or the poor men who died for it in Ireland, but Ma says his broken heart will never mend. He's awful changed, Mary Louise. Today when I sat beside him he put out his hand and stroked my hair and said, Poor child, poor child, you've been neglected. After all, says he, one's duties begin at home. He hasn't had any fits of the devils lately, either. Seems like he's all broke up, you know. Can he walk yet? inquired Mary Louise. Yes, he's getting stronger every day. This morning he walked to the bridge and back, but he was just rather wobbly on his legs. Ma said she wouldn't have left him just now if she wasn't sure he'd pick up. Oh, has your mother gone away, then? Left last night, said Ingwes for Washington. Is her vacation over? It isn't that, replied the child. Ma isn't going to work any more just now. Says she's going to take care of Grandad. She went to Washington because she got a telegram saying that Senator Ingwes is dead. Senator Ingwes? Yes, he was my godfather, you see. I didn't know it myself till Ma told me last night. He was an uncle of Will Scammel, my father that died, but he wasn't very friendly to him and didn't give him any money while he lived. Ma named me after the senator, though, because she knew which side her bread was buttered on, and now he's left me ten thousand dollars in his will. Ten thousand? exclaimed Mary Louise, delightedly. Why, you craggles are going to be rich, Ingwes. But with all the money your mother got back from Ned Jocelyn and this legacy you will never suffer poverty again. That's what Ma says, returned the child simply, but I don't know whether I'll like all the changes Ma's planned or not. When she gets back from Washington she's going to take me and grandad away somewheres for the winter, and I'm to go into a girl's school. Oh, that will be nice. Will it, Mary Louise? I ain't sure. And while we're gone they're going to tear down the old shack and build a fine new house in its place and fix up the grounds so they're just as good as the Kenton Place. Then your mother intends to live here always? Yes, she says it crags places at Crags Crossing, and the family's going to hold up its head again, and we're to beat some pumpkins round here. But I sort of hate to see the old place go, Mary Louise, turning a regretful glance at the ancient cottage from over her shoulder. I can understand that, dear, said the other girl thoughtfully, but I am sure the change will be for the best. Do you know what has become of Ned Jocelyn? Yes, he and Annabelle Kenton, that's his wife, have gone away somewheres together, somewheres out west, Ma says. He didn't squander Ann's money, it seems, not all of it. In a how didn't have time, I suppose, he was so busy robbing Grandad. Ned run away for man that time he disappeared, because English spies was on his tracks and he didn't want to be took prisoner. That was why he kept in hiding and didn't let Ann know where he was. He was afraid she'd get rattled and blab. Oh, I think I understand. But he will have to keep in hiding always, won't he? I suppose so. Ma says that'll suit her all right. Am I talking more decent than I used to, Mary Louise? You're improving every day, Inge. I'm trying to be like you, you know. Ma says I've been a little Arab, but she means to make a lady of me. I hope she will, and then... Well, Inge, you'll come to visit me some time in our new house, won't you? I sure will, dear, promised Mary Louise. End of Chapter 28 End of Mary Louise and the Country by L. Frank Baum Read for Libra Vox into the Public Domain by Cibella Denton in Carrollton, Georgia, in February 2009. For more free audio books or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org.