The whole of Valley Stream gathered at Farmer Dodge's house to watch, awe-struck, the mysterious movements of the police force as it went tiptoeing about, peeping into corners, secretly examining tracks in the mud, and squinting suspiciously at the brogans of the bystanders. When it had all been gone through, this record of facts bearing on the case was made:-- Rover was dead. He had apparently been smothered. With the hand, not a rope. There was a ladder set up against the window of the spare bedroom. That it had not been there before was evidence that the thieves had set it up. The window was open, and they had gone in. Several watches, some good clothes, sundry articles of jewellery, all worth some six or seven hundred dollars, were missing and could not be found. In conclusion, the constable put on record his belief that the thieves who had smothered the dog and set up the ladder had taken the property. The solid citizens of the village sat upon the verdict in the store, solemnly considered it, and agreed that it was so. This point settled, there was left only the other: Who were the thieves? The solid citizens by a unanimous decision concluded that Inspector Byrnes was the man to tell them. So they came over to New York and laid the matter before him, with a mental diagram of the village, the house, the dog, and the ladder at the window. There was just the suspicion of a twinkle in the corner of the inspector's eye as he listened gravely and then said:-- "It was the spare bedroom, wasn't it?" "The spare bedroom," said the committee, in one breath. "The only one in the house?" queried the inspector, further. "The only one," responded the echo. "H'm!" pondered the inspector. "You keep hands on your farm, Mr. Dodge?" Mr. Dodge did. "Sleep in the house?" "Yes." "Discharged any one lately?" The committee rose as one man, and, staring at each other with bulging eyes, said "Jake!" all at once. "Jakey, b'gosh!" repeated the constable to himself, kicking his own shins softly as he tugged at his beard. "Jake, by thunder!" Jake was a boy of eighteen, who had been employed by the farmer to do chores. He was shiftless, and a week or two before had been sent away in disgrace. He had gone no one knew whither. The committee told the inspector all about Jake, gave him a minute description of him,--of his ways, his gait, and his clothes,--and went home feeling that they had been wondrous smart in putting so sharp a man on the track he would never have thought of if they hadn't mentioned Jake's name. All he had to do now was to follow it to the end, and let them know when he had reached it. And as these good men had prophesied, even so it came to pass. Detectives of the inspector's staff were put on the trail. They followed it from the Long Island pastures across the East River to the Bowery, and there into one of the cheap lodging-houses where thieves are turned out ready-made while you wait. There they found Jake.