And while Tubal Cain Sims talked convulsively on, hardly realizing whither his reminiscences led, the expert penman was quietly noting down all the personal traits of poor Lucien Royce,--his height, his weight, his size, the color of his hair and eyes, the quality of his complexion, the method of his enunciation, and the polish of his manner,--all in the due and accepted form of advertisement for criminals, minus the alluring sum offered for their apprehension by the governor of the State. Tubal Cain Sims did not note the cessation of the scraping of the pen, but the sheriff did, and it was within a few moments that he said, “Well, Mr. Sims, this offers no ground for arrestin’ the man. But I’ll give you a piece of advice,--don’t let him know of your errand here, or he’ll take French leave of you and take the girl with him. I can’t arrest him for you”-- “Courtin’ ’s the inalienable right of man, and, in leap year, of woman too,” sputtered the deputy, with his pen in his mouth and his laugh crowding it. “But,” continued the sheriff, “as I have some business up that way, I may come over soon an’ look after him, myself. Say nothin’, though, about that, or you’ll lose your daughter,--just one daughter.” “One darter,” echoed Tubal Sims, his eyes absorbed and docile as he followed the crafty officer’s speech. “Say nothin’ to nobody, and I’ll see you before long.” Then suddenly leaving the subject, with a briskening style he turned to the deputy. “Jeemes, take Mr. Sims before a magistrate,--Squair Purdy, I’d recommend,--on a charge of carrying weepons with the intent o’ goin’ armed. Let him know, though, Mr. Sims, ’twas in ignorance of the law, and a-travelin’. Remind him that the code says the statute is to be liberally construed. And remember that Jeemes can’t swear that old army pistol was _concealed_ on _no account_. _I_ don’t b’lieve Jeemes kin make out a case agin ye. Squair Purdy is mighty lenient.” “Ain’t you-uns goin’?” quavered Mr. Sims, distrusting the tender mercies of the facetious Jeemes. “No, sir,” replied the sheriff, now far away in the contemplation of other matters. “Jeemes, go to the telephone and ring up the cap’n in Knoxville. I want to speak to him.” It only seemed a great babbling of a little bell in the grim twilight of the hall of the jail as the deputy piloted Tubal Cain Sims out of the door which had so obdurately closed on him. And how should his ignorance conceive that within three minutes the chief of police in Knoxville was listening to the description of poor Lucien Royce, given by the sheriff of Kildeer County, and trying for his life to reconcile its dissimilarities with the physical traits of various missing malefactors sadly wanted by the police in divers localities? X.