There was a sound of feet on the steps, and two men entered the cottage. They were large, determined-looking fellows, plainly dressed. They stopped just inside the door and looked the party over, without speaking a word. “How do you do, gentlemen,” said Merriwell. “This visit is something of a surprise. You’re a little late for breakfast.” The larger of the two men nodded shortly, then he turned to the other and said something in a low tone. Their actions aroused Bart’s suspicions, and he took a step toward the corner, where two shotguns stood. “Is this the whole of your party?” asked the large man. “It is,” answered Frank. “What can we do for you?” The man did not answer at once, but he was heard to say to the other: “He ain’t here.” “Perhaps they’re lyin’,” muttered the other. “Look here,” came grimly from the big man; “we’re looking for a certain person, and we have been told he was camping out over this way with a lot of boys.” Frank flushed a bit and stepped forward promptly. “There is no person camping here besides the ones you see,” came rather sharply from his lips. More words passed between the two men, and then the larger one said aloud: “If you’re lyin’, you’ll get yourselves inter trouble. I am Ben Bowers, the sheriff from Newport. This is John Nason, one of my deputies. We are here looking after a certain chap who has been passing in this section under the name of Joe Tweed.” “We know nothing of Mr. Joe Tweed. We never heard of him, sir.” “That’s all right. You look as if you was honest, but, perhaps, you don’t know what this Tweed has done.” “We do not.” “Well, he’s robbed an old miser, over in North Newport, of thirty thousand dollars, and hit the old man a crack on the head that may kill him. Now, if you’ve seen Tweed, or know anything about him, the best thing you can do is to tell everything. You’ll git in a bad scrape if you don’t, that’s all.” By this time Frank was thoroughly angry, but he held himself in check, seeming perfectly cool, although he spoke firmly. “We are not robbers, Mr. Sheriff, and we do not associate with robbers. Such an insinuation is decidedly unpleasant.” “Perhaps they’ve seen him,” said the deputy. Bart strode to Frank’s side and said, in a low tone: “Who knows—this chap who calls himself Bunker may be the fellow they are looking after.” Frank gave a start. Then he asked: “What does this Joe Tweed look like, Mr. Bowers? Will you describe him, please.” “He’s a large man, dresses pretty well, smooth-faced, looks like an actor. He is a very smooth talker. Has a small, blue scar under his left ear.” Bart was disappointed. “Bunker’s not the man,” he said, regretfully. “We have seen no such man as you describe,” declared Merriwell. “He has not been here.”