So she turned over the little damp spot on her pillow where the tears had fallen, and deliberately settled herself to sleep, forcibly putting away all thoughts of her strange experiences for another time and addressing herself to rest. There might be dangers passing on the street, but God had promised to care for her, and she knew she could trust Him. She needed the rest and must take it. So she slept and night settled down about the little cottage under the maples. * * * * * A hundred miles away in the darkness a man stole like a shadow through the night, walking noiselessly down a deserted road to the graveyard, vanished among the graves into the velvety blackness under the trees. Appeared a point of light like a darting firefly fitfully now and then lighting up the spectral marbles for a gleam and going out again as if it had not been there. A soft sound of stirring among the growing things on a grave as one knelt beside it and worked, breathing hard, the light shining once more steadily for an instant on trailing vines and glowing berries, then ceasing entirely. Steps to the back of the graveyard, and strange, muffled sounds dying away into silence and midnight. Later, in a city cellar lair a meeting of angry, puzzled, incredulous men, and one, resolute, calm, fearless, indifferent, determined, dominating them all. Money going around, more than they had expected, yet only arousing suspicion; and then, before they could protest, the leader going out into the night alone, leaving them to voice their suspicions, and plot against him. CHAPTER XII When Judge Peterson woke up in the morning after a night of restless tossing, and an early morning doze, he called to his wife with a voice much like his old time vigor. “Miranda, bring me my pants. I want to try how it seems to sit up. I’ve got to get out of here and find that little girl. There’s something queer about this business and I reckon it’s up to me to study it out.” The anxious face of Miranda Peterson that had been creased all night with tormenting fears suddenly relaxed and a gleam of joy came into her eyes. This was her old time husband back again. The visitors hadn’t done him so much damage after all, perhaps had only given him an added incentive to get well. With a spring in her step and a light in her eye she swung the old-fashioned wardrobe door open and revealed his baggy trousers hung up by their suspenders just where she had put them the night he was taken sick. “All right, father,” she said briskly, “There they are. You have your breakfast and as soon as the doctor comes we’ll ask him if you can put ’em on. There’s ham and eggs this morning, do you feel for ham or only eggs?” “Both!” declared the indomitable old man, “I’ve got a lot to do today and I want strength. Mother, did you ever think that Mary Massey suspected her son’s wife of not being--well--exactly loyal to the family?” Miranda Peterson paused in the open doorway: