“Well, now,”--there was no trace of impatience in the special agent's voice,--“that's just as you like. We don't want to impose on you; and of course we're more than willing to pay for what we get.” “Well, I dunno. I s'pose you might come in. Maybe we've got a little bread and milk.” The kitchen was not a large room. The floor was bare, as were the walls, saving a few county-fair advertisements in the form of colored lithographs. A thin, colorless, dulleyed little woman was seated beside a pine table, sewing by the light of a kerosene lamp. The third member of the family, a boy of fourteen, did not appear until a moment later. When the sound of the opening door reached his ears, he was lying flat on his bed, chin propped on hands, feverishly boring through a small volume in a flashy paper binding. Beveridge, as they all found seats, was taking in the farmer, noting his shifting eyes, and his clothes, which were nothing more than a suit of torn overalls. “Diana,” said Lindquist, “you might give these young men some bread and milk.” His wife laid aside her sewing without a word, and went to the pantry. “Now,” began Beveridge, “I suppose we ought to find out where we are.” “What's that?” “Where are we, Mr. Lindquist? What's the nearest town?” “The nearest town, you said?” “Yes.” “Why, Ramsey, I guess, or--” “Or--what?” “Or--Spencer's place.” “That's what I was afraid of.” Beveridge turned to his companions, adding, “You see, we've got back near the lake.” At the sound of strange voices, the boy came down the stairs and stood in a corner, gazing at the strangers, and holding his book behind him. “How far off is the Lake, Mr. Lindquist?” “How--what's that you say?” “How far off is the Lake?” “What Lake?” “Lake Huron, of course.” “Lake Huron?--Oh, twenty,--twenty-two mile.” “That's another story!” exclaimed Wilson. But Beveridge, evidently fearing his assistant's tongue, gave him a look that quieted him. The faces of the four travellers all showed relief. The bread and milk were ready now, and they fell to, joking and laughing as heartily as if their only care had been a camp outfit somewhere in the woods; but all the time the three were watching Beveridge, awaiting his next move. It came, finally, when the last crumb of bread had disappeared and the plates had been pushed back. “Now, Mr. Lindquist,” said Beveridge, “it's getting on pretty late in the evening, and we're tired. Can't you put us up for the night? Not in the house--I'd hardly ask that--but out in the barn, say?” As he spoke he laid a two-dollar bill on the table and pushed it over close to the farmer's hand. “Well, I dunno.” For a moment the bill lay there between their two hands, then Lindquist's nervous fingers slowly closed over it. “I suppose you could sleep out there.” “That's first-rate. We 'll go right out if you don't mind. You needn't bother about coming. Just let your boy there bring a lantern and show us where to go.”