“Don’t you worry, Baxter,” cried the sheriff, slapping the young man on the back. “My wife was talking to a prominent county official this morning—a good Democrat and a candidate for reëlection—and she made him promise not to vote for old Horace Gooch next November. She made him swear on his sacred word of honor not to do it. He went even further and swore he would vote for you, and it will be the first time he has ever voted for a Republican. Well, so long. Here’s a reporter for the _Evening Tribune_ waiting to interview you. He came down with me. He’s a nice feller and he’ll give you a square deal in spite of the fact his paper is opposed to you politically. Of course, he’ll have to play this business up, so don’t get sore if you see your name in the headlines to-night.” “I sha’n’t,” said Oliver, but more soberly than before. “I suppose there won’t be a day from now on that there isn’t something in the papers about the sensational Baxter case. I tell you, Sheriff, it hurts. I may act as if it doesn’t hurt—but it does.” “I know it does, Baxter,” said the sheriff sympathetically. “I’m sorry—mighty sorry.” Fully a week passed before a move was made by the authorities. The newspapers devoted considerable first page space to the new angle in the unsolved Baxter mystery, but not one of them took the matter up editorially. The principal Democratic organ, _The Tribune_, hinted at a possible disclosure, but went no farther; the Republican sheets withheld their fire until the time seemed ripe to open up on old man Gooch. Notwithstanding the reticence of the press, the news spread like wildfire that Horace Gooch was actually charging his nephew with the murder of his father. The town of Rumley went wild with anger and indignation. A few hotheads talked of tar and feathers for old man Gooch. And yet deep down in the soul of every one who cried out against Horace Gooch’s malevolence lurked a strange uneasiness that could not be shaken off. The excitement over the return of Mrs. Sage was short-lived on account of the new and startling turn in the Baxter mystery. Acute interest in the pastor’s wife dwindled into a mild, almost innocuous form of curiosity. At best, she was a three days’ wonder. If she had lived up to expectations by appearing on the streets in startling gowns and hats, or if she had behaved in public as actresses are supposed to behave, she might have held her own against the odds; but she did none of these. She wore what the women of the town called very unstylish clothes; she behaved with sickening propriety; she was a real disappointment. People began to wonder what on earth all those trunks contained that Joe O’Brien had hauled up to the parsonage. If they contained clothes, where was she keeping them and why didn’t she put them on once in a while?