The first thing he saw was an item from Springfield. It read: “The case of Robert Ellison, accused of the murder of James Conroyd, is again postponed for trial. A claim is now made by the defence that proofs of the entire innocence of Ellison were sent by a messenger by Mr. Montague, of Millville, to Mr. Durand, the Springfield lawyer. These proofs, they aver, have disappeared with the messenger, and time is asked to find him and procure them.” The next item startled Dean still more deeply. It appalled him. It seemed as if a network was closing in upon him. “The owner of the lake steamer, the _Spray_, burned mysteriously night before last at the wharf at Springfield, will not build a new craft this season. Judge Oglesby, however, is in the field of lake traffic to stay, and it is hinted that a railroad around its shores is contemplated.” “The _Spray_--burned!” gasped Dean. “Is this another plot, all these strange happenings? What is this?” It was one of Lawyer Montague’s advertisements: “D. M.--Keep the money, but for humanity’s sake, return the proofs of R. E.’s innocence! M.” “My initials, and evidently signed by Montague!” breathed Dean wildly, more and more mystified. “And he thinks I have disappeared with the money and papers purposely. Oh, this must all be some dreadful plot against me!” This last discovery overwhelmed him. He knew the worst at last--knew the full extent of what had happened since he last saw the _Spray_. He was a thief, a fugitive--disgraced, condemned by all reputable people! “It’s awful!” Yes, and mystifying, too. Dean Mercer felt like beating at his prison walls and demanding release. He was falsely accused; circumstances had encircled him in the deepest guilt. His good name was gone forevermore. No, no, he was innocent, and all the prison bars and contumely in Christendom cannot long subdue the noble soul that, unjustly accused, looks to heaven for counsel and aid. The night must break some time--patience! patience! Gradually a calmer sense of hopefulness and confidence ensued. Then, through the long and weary vigils of the night, Dean Mercer sought to learn whose the evil hand could be; whence the motive that had wrought all this ruin and disaster, and had laid it to his charge. CHAPTER XVIII. TALK OF ESCAPE. “No. 301!” “That’s me,” murmured Dean. “No. 1017!” “Here, sir!” spoke Marcus Ellison. Both boys looked concerned, and exchanged glances. They mutually feared that the broken ventilator had been discovered, but they were mistaken. “Report to the warden for duty,” ordered the guard, and he passed on. The two boys went to the office. The warden regarded them carelessly. “You understand gardening, you two,” he said. “The guard reports excellent work. Do you like it?” Marcus answered for both. “Yes, sir.”