After supper he went to the local hotel, and asked if there was any mail for Frank Newton. “No,” replied the clerk whom he questioned, “but here’s a telegram been waiting here for you since noon.” “Thank you for your trouble,” said Frank, rather anxiously tearing open the yellow envelope. “That’s all right,” nodded the hotel clerk. “Good news, I reckon?” he smiled, as Frank’s face lit up magically at a hasty perusal of the message. “I should say so!” declared Frank. The message was from Darry Haven, at Pleasantville, and it read: “Come home at once. Money found.” CHAPTER XXIII A RIVAL CONCERN “I call that extraordinary,” declared Bob Haven. “Certainly a sensational and a puzzling piece of business,” echoed his brother, Darry. “It is the best news I have had for a long time,” said Frank, buoyantly. “I tell you, fellows, you don’t know what a load it has lifted from my mind.” “I should think so,” nodded Darry--“to get back all that two hundred dollars, when you had given it up as lost.” It was ten o’clock in the morning. Frank’s clothing was covered with dust. His eyes looked tired and sleepy. Upon the receipt of the telegram at Essex, he had hitched up the horse promptly and started for Pleasantville. Darry welcomed him with effusion, and he and Bob at once led Frank into their little editorial sanctum. There were some quick developments, and now Frank sat, a queerly decorated sheet of paper in his hand. On the table before him was the wallet which had disappeared four days previous with Markham. “Tell your story all over again, slowly and carefully,” said Frank to Darry. “It’s something to get back that money, but it’s a good deal more to find out what has become of Markham.” “Well,” said Darry, “it’s just as I told you. Yesterday noon in our mail we found that letter you have. As you see, it has an envelope bearing our name and address printed. We send these out when we solicit business, and I supposed it was some new customer asking an estimate on a printing job. Judge of my surprise, when I found enclosed that letter.” “Yes,” murmured Frank, “it’s a queer-looking affair.” “You can see how it was put together. It must have taken hours for its sender to cut all kinds of letters from a printed newspaper, and slowly and patiently paste them onto that blank sheet. Letter by letter he built up those words and sentences.” Frank once more read over the letter in his hands, which ran: “tell frAnk newTon Money is beHind coAl BoX, thiRd flooR, YoUr buiLDiNg--mARkHAm.”