“Yes,” Carroll answered. “Henkle used all the influence he could wield to save them, and managed to get them whitewashed. Of course, for Melba’s sake, I was mighty glad to have it turn out that way. But they’re not running the _Chronicle_ any more. Old Gale found himself so unpopular as a result of that explosion affair that as soon as he was able to leave the hospital he sold his paper at a ridiculously low figure; sold his house, too, and left town for good.” “And did his son go with him?” “Yes. I understand, though, that he’s trying to get back his old job on the New York _Daily News_, so possibly you’ll have the pleasure of seeing him again before long. But I say, Frank, I’ve come all the way from Oldham to tell you how much I appreciate----” “And how about my old friend Chief Hodgins?” the Camera Chap relentlessly interrupted. “I saw in the _Bulletin_ that you fired him from the force as soon as you were sworn in. What is he doing now?” Carroll laughed. “He has gone into the hotel business. He’s bought an inn on Main Street, not far from police headquarters. He’s got a big sign in the lobby, just before the clerk’s desk, and it says: ‘No cameras allowed on these premises!’” THE END. * * * * * THE BANK ROBBER. By HERO STRONG. I think it was some time in July that she came to Locust Cottage. It was a house that most ladies would have feared to live in, for its situation was lonely and secluded, and its reputation bad as possible. Some one was murdered there several years before, and such a circumstance is enough to blast the character of any house in the country. In the city they are used to such things, and do not mind them. Mrs. Leroy did not take a lease of Locust Cottage without knowing what was just said of it. She heard old Granny Coe’s story of the “death lights” that danced past the windows on stormy nights, and listened, with tolerable patience to Peter Jones’ narrative of the immense black dog that had howled at him one night when he was passing the house. Peter was a brave fellow, according to his own estimate, and he averred that he went to the fence and got a stake to make “daylight shine through the sassy cur,” but when he struck at him the dog was not there. There was nothing left to mark the spot where he had stood and growled, except a speck of fire about as big as a dollar; and even that faded away as Peter gazed upon it, and left just nothing at all. Then there was another story of a fair young girl, with long, flaxen hair, wreathed with water lilies; and this girl sat on the moldy piazza, of wet nights, and sang plaintive airs to an old broken-stringed lute, which, according to all descriptions, must have seen its best days long before.