Ten minutes later, Marshal Crow strode solemnly out of the _Banner_ office, and debouched upon the crowd in front of Hawkins's. Several erstwhile admirers snickered. He paid not the slightest attention to them. Instead he inquired in a loud, authoritative voice if any one had seen Alf Reesling. "I'm standin' right in front of you," said Alf. "I deputize you to act as guard during the day over the remains of Orlando Camp. You are to see to it that no one trespasses within fifty feet of it without an order from me,--or the Governor of New York. You will--" "What the devil are you talkin' about?" demanded Alf. "There ain't no remains around here named Camp." The marshal smiled, but there was more pity than mirth in the effort. "All you got to do is to do what I deputize you to do," he said quietly. "Is Bill Kepsal here?" "Present," said the iron-armed blacksmith, with a series of winks that almost sufficed to take in the whole assemblage. "I deputize you, William Kepsal, and--" (he craned his neck slightly)--"and you, Newton Spratt, out there on the edge of the crowd, to act as guards durin' the night, until relieved by Deputy Reesling at seven A. M. tomorrow mornin'. You will permit no one to approach or remove the body of Moses Briscoe from its present place of confinement until further orders. And now, feller citizens, I must request you one and all to disperse and not to congregate again in this locality, under penalty of the law. Disperse at once, move on, everybody." The crowd didn't move an inch. "He's gone plumb crazy," said Rush Applegate to Uncle Dad Simms, and he made such a special effort that Uncle Dad heard him quite distinctly. "He always _wuz_," agreed Uncle Dad. "What's he crazy about this time?" "Come on home, Anderson," said Alf Reesling, gently. "Maybe if you took a dose of--" "Lemme talk to him," interrupted Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer. "I had an uncle once that _died_ in an asylum, and I used to keep him quiet before he got hopeless by lettin' on that he really _was_ George Washington. Now, look here, Anderson,--" Marshal Crow held up his hand. There was no sign of resentment in his voice or manner as he addressed the grinning crowd. "I don't blame you for thinkin' that man in there is Jake Miller. I thought so myself until a couple o' days ago. That's when I first begin to suspect that he was the very man he now turns out to be. Gentlemen, if the individual that you knew as Jake Miller hadn't took his own life last night, I would have had him behind the bars today, sure as all get out. He wasn't no more Jake Miller than I am. Jake Miller was one of his alibis. He had--" "You mean aliases," interrupted Professor Rank, of the high school. "Or nom de plumes," added Willie Spence, the chief clerk at the Grand View Hotel, one of the most inveterate readers in town. To Willie the name of any author was a nom de plume; it didn't make any difference whether it was his real name or not.