That was all, no signature, nothing to indicate the identity of the writer. Evan folded the paper and thrust it into his vest pocket. He looked through the door of the composing room and frowned. The line of his mouth was straight and narrow. Eleven o’clock, at the Lakeside Hotel!... Queerly enough, the thought flashed into his mind. What drew Sheriff Churchill out of his house on the night of his disappearance?... Evan passed through the swinging gate and sat down at his table just as Carmel re-entered the room. “Who was in?” she asked. “Nobody,” said Evan Pell. “Just a kid asking for blotters.” She would go to the Lakeside Hotel. It was not in her character to do otherwise. She would go, she would place herself in peril. Had the note come into her hands, he had no doubt she would have concealed it and have gone alone.... Well, she did not receive it. She would not go. That much was sure. Carmel spoke. “There goes Abner Fownes,” she said, and, turning, he saw the well-known equipage with the coachman on the front seat and Fownes, pompous, making a public spectacle for the benefit of an admiring public, bolt upright in the rear seat. “He’s going some place,” said Carmel. “See. He has a bag.” “Yes,” said Pell. He remembered that Fownes had been absent from Gibeon on the night Churchill had disappeared. “Yes, he’s going some place.” They watched the equipage until it disappeared, making the turn toward the railroad station. “Tubal will have the petitions in ten minutes,” she said. “How will we go about getting signatures?” “I don’t think that matters,” he said, absently. “What?” “I--I beg your pardon.... Er--signatures. Of course. Signatures.” “What ails you, Mr. Pell. Of course, signatures. We weren’t speaking of potatoes.” His manner was strange, she thought. He seemed a trifle pale. Was he ill?... No, he said, he was not ill, he was afraid he had been a trifle absent-minded. Carmel eyed him sharply. The thing did not look like absent-mindedness to her. He arose and went to the telephone. “Give me the station, please,” he said, and then waited. “Is this the station? This is the _Free Press_.... Yes.... No news? Um!... Just saw Mr. Fownes going past with a bag. Thought he might be going away. We like to print something when people go away.... Bought his ticket?... To the capital, eh?... Thank you.” He hung up the receiver, and there was a look of profound relief on his face. This was surprising to Carmel. Why he should be relieved by learning Fownes was on his way to the capital was beyond her comprehension. “Miss Lee,” he said, “there will be no time to get signers to a petition.” “Why?” “Because you must start at once for the capital.” “But the train is leaving. It will be gone before I can get to the depot.” “Abner Fownes is going to see the Governor,” he said. “There can be but one reason for it. He has decided he needs a sheriff. He’s gone.... It is a six-hour trip by rail, with the change at Litchfield.” “What of it?”