The truth suddenly dawned upon the clouded mind of Rodney Darringford. The men hired for the miserable work had set the new steamer on fire! There would be no rival to his father’s old-time packet. The excitement attending this discovery quite overcame the effects of the liquor, and Rodney felt frightened. “Let’s see what that check looks like,” said the cunning Tim. “I hain’t more’n got a glimmer of it.” Glad to have his mind diverted from the object which had so disconcerted him, Rodney brought forth from his pocket the envelope which had been handed him by his accomplice in crime. It was the same one Judge Olgesby had given Dean before starting for Springfield. “I ain’t so big a fool as to give three hundred dollars for nothing,” declared Rodney, triumphantly, producing the check. “Come under the electric light where we can see it,” requested Tim, and the other did as he was asked, though not without some misgivings. “What if a policeman should see us?” “Reading a check ain’t ag’in the law,” retorted Tim, his eye running over the narrow strip of paper as he spoke. “Good for a cool eight thousand dollars,” declared Tim. “But the check is payable to Dean Mercer. How am I to get it?” “Easiest thing in the world. Just sign--turn it over.” Rodney did as he requested. “It’s signed by Dean Mercer,” said Tim, with a ring of exultation in his voice. “But they won’t recognize me,” said Rodney. “If they did, I would not dare to put my name on it.” “What bank is it payable at?” “The Atlas.” “And you are sure they do not know you there?” “Yes.” “If they don’t know ye, it’s as easy as sliding down a greased pole. Ye are Dean Mercer, see?” Rodney either dared not or could not understand his companion. “There’s something else in the envelope. Let me see.” Tim quickly drew forth a sheet carefully folded. It was the letter Judge Olgesby had written for Dean, and Tim asked his companion to read it. Rodney then read in a low tone: “MR. JAMES RAWLINSON, Cashier Atlas Bank, Springfield. “Dear Sir--Allow me to introduce to you the bearer, Mr. Dean Mercer, my business manager in a new venture I am about to undertake upon the lake. As he will doubtless call often to your bank with checks, I have O. K’d. his signature at the end of this letter so you will know it.” Under the letter was the name of Dean Mercer in his own handwriting, verified as genuine by the judge’s signature below. “Don’t you see, everything is as clear as ice,” said Tim. “You go to the bank in the morning as soon as it is opened, pretending you are Dean Mercer; get the money, and we will divide the haul.” “I--I think so,” replied Rodney, who had not reached the condition of mind which his companion had gained. “That’s easy enough, Rod. Now let’s look up a stopping place, and once there, we will divide the money got from the kid.” “You mean Marcus Ellison? You have that money?” “Every cent--and the papers.” “Where’s the boy?” “Gone.” “Gone where?”