“Looks like you boys had saved me a lot of trouble. Caught him with the goods, didn’t you?” Dick nodded. “Yes, and I hope he gets the biggest penalty that can be imposed,” he said sternly. “He’s pretty near ruined one man’s life.” “There ain’t any doubt he’ll git all that’s coming to him,” the lank fellow said, in a tone of satisfaction. “We ought to be able to catch the last train down and give him his first taste of jail to-night.” “And I’ll go with you,” Archie said decidedly. “I want to see him good and safe.” They all finally decided to go as far as Lysander Cobmore’s place, from which Archie and the detective could proceed alone with the guilty man. Making their way quickly through the woods, they found the farmer standing by the barn, a yellow envelope in his hand. His eyes lit up as they fell upon the dapper figure of Joblots. “Waal, waal,” he drawled. “If you ain’t saved me a heap o’ trouble. This here telegram was jest brought from town, and I hadn’t no more notion than a cat what to do with it.” He handed the envelope to the detective, who tore it open eagerly. As he took in the contents, his face darkened and he bit his lips angrily. “Two days wasted!” he snapped, crumpling the message in his hand, and tossing it to the ground. “Wouldn’t that frost you!” The Reverend Pennyfeather made no bones about picking it up, and, when he had spread it out, this was what he read: “Hartford crooks nabbed at Westfield. Swag recovered. You are on false trail. Report at office at once.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XV AS IN A LOOKING-GLASS. The day was overcast and lowery. It was not actually raining, but the raw wind from the Sound brought with it a heavy mist, damp and clogging, which was almost as bad. The crispness was taken out of everything, the sidewalks were dank and slippery, and pedestrians hurried along the streets with turned-up collars, turned-down hat brims, and a general air of shivery unpleasantness, as if they hated themselves, the people they brushed elbows with, and, above all else, the business which made it necessary for them to be out in such sloppy weather. Dick Merriwell, who had returned to New Haven, was no exception to the general rule as he walked along Chapel Street toward the campus. His long, loose, tightly buttoned coat, with the collar turned above the ears, was covered with a multitude of tiny drips of moisture, almost like hoarfrost. The brim of his soft felt hat was pulled down over his eyes, and now and then a drop of water gathered at the point and splashed to the sidewalk.