Among these was a good assortment of leather souvenir postal cards, just then a decided novelty outside of the large cities. He had brought along a large jewelry tray. This he suspended by a strap from his neck, and went up to the big hotel at the end of the lake. A group of girls in a summer house running out over the water furnished Frank with his first customers. He sold two friendship rings and sixteen postal cards. A crowd of idle men took fire on the puzzle proposition, as two men examining the wire devices got rating one another as to their respective ability to get the ring off first. A dozen puzzles were purchased in as many minutes. Frank went the rounds of the verandas, meeting with very fair success. The people there had plenty of money to spare, time hung rather heavy on their hands, and they welcomed his arrival as a diversion. Frank grew to have a decided respect for Markham’s little puzzle. He had struck the right crowd to sell it to, this time. At the end of an hour fully fifty persons could be seen on the well-lighted verandas and in the hotel rotunda, working over the clever puzzle. An occasional utterance of satisfaction would greet the solution of the puzzle. “Markham has certainly left me a money-winner, if he never came back,” reflected Frank. He was passing along a lighted walk near the lake beach, when a young lady ran past him towards a group of friends. A foppishly-dressed man with a great black moustache was hastening after her, but she was calling laughingly back at him: “No, no, count, you would take all night getting that ring off--I’ll try some one else.” “It ees a meestake. Allow me to try once more, my dear young lady.” “Hello!” ejaculated Frank, with a violent start. Then in a flash he slipped the tray from place, set it hastily on a vacant bench, and as the man was passing by him caught him deliberately by the sleeve. “Sare!” challenged the man, with a supercilious stare. “Oh!” he added, wilting down in an instant. “I suppose you don’t know me?” demanded Frank. “Nevare, sare.” “I am Frank Newton, of Greenville, and, for all your false moustache and broken English, you are Gideon Purnell.” “Let go!” hissed the man, with a rapid glance at the group just beyond them. “No,” replied Frank firmly, only tightening his grasp on the man’s coat sleeve. “I have been looking for you for over a year. I knew I should find you some time. I have found you now.” “What do you want?” stammered his crestfallen companion. “Ten minutes’ quiet conversation with you.” “About what?” “You know. You were the tool Mr. Dorsett used to rob my mother of her fortune. He got what he was after. You overstepped yourself. You forged two names in your crooked dealings, as Mr. Beach, our lawyer at Greenville, has the proof.” “Boy,” said Purnell, in a low, quick tone, “don’t make a rumpus here. Come and see me to-morrow, and I will do the square thing by you.”