About eight o’clock the next evening John Trafton sat in the barroom at the tavern enjoying himself in the manner characteristic of the place. All day long his mind had been dwelling upon the plan which he had so recently formed, and he felt a feverish desire to carry it out. “One bold stroke,” he said to himself, “and I am a made man. No more hard work for me. I will live like a gentleman.” It was rather a strange idea the fisherman had--that he could live like a gentleman on the proceeds of a burglary--but there are many who, like him, consider that nothing is needed but money to make a gentleman. That very night John Trafton decided to make the attempt, if circumstances seemed favorable. He shrank from it as the time approached and felt that he needed some artificial courage. For this reason he visited the tavern and patronized the bar more liberally than usual. Trafton had prudently resolved to keep his design entirely secret and not to drop even a hint calculated to throw suspicion upon him after the event. But there is an old proverb that when the wine is in the wit is out, and, though the fisherman indulged in whisky rather than wine, the saying will apply just as well to the one as to the other. Among the company present in the barroom was one man who had been in the village a day or two, but was a stranger to all present. He was a short, powerfully made man, roughly dressed, with a low brow and quick, furtive eyes that had a look of suspicion in them. He had naturally found his way to the tavern bar and proved himself a liberal patron of the establishment. Therefore the landlord--though he did not fancy the looks of his new guest--treated him with politeness. Somehow the conversation on that particular evening drifted to the probable wealth of city people who made their homes at Cook’s Harbor during the summer. It was afterward remembered that the roughly dressed stranger had introduced the subject in a casual way. “It’s my opinion,” said Ben Barton, “that Mr. Irving is our richest man.” “What makes you think so, Ben?” asked the landlord. “The way he lives partly. He’s got everything that money can buy. Besides, I heard his boy say that his father’s watch cost him five hundred dollars. Now, it stands to reason that a man don’t wear a watch like that unless he’s got the money to back it.” “There’s something in that,” the landlord admitted. The stranger seemed interested. “Does this Irving stay down here himself?” he asked. “No, he only comes down Saturday to stay over Sunday.” “Does he have much silver in the house?” “I don’t know. Why?” inquired Ben Barton, turning a surprised look upon the stranger. “Because a real, tiptop rich man generally has plenty of plate,” answered the man after a pause. “I guess he doesn’t keep it down here,” said Barton. “It’s likely he’s got plenty in the city.” The stranger shrugged his shoulders. “Does his wife wear diamonds?” he asked.