“I declare,” thought Amos, “when I think of that morning, and how much brighter she looked, it makes me sick to think of her as dead. She had been doing a lot of things on the sly, helping folks. It was her has been sending the money for the jail dinner on Christmas, and the ice-cream on the Fourth, and books, too. ‘It’s so terrible to be a prisoner,’ says she. Wonder, didn’t she know? I declare I _hate_ her to be dead! Ain’t it possible—Lord! wouldn’t that be a go?” He did not express even to himself his sudden flash of light on the mystery. But he went his ways to the armory of the militia company, the office of the chief of police (which was the very next building), and to the fire department. At one of these places he wrote out an advertisement, which the reporters read in the evening papers, and found so exciting that they all flocked together to discuss it. All this did not take an hour’s time. It was to be observed that at every place which he visited he first stepped to the telephone and called up the jail. “Are you all right there, Raker?” he asked. Then he told where he was going. “If you need, you can telephone me there,” he said. “I guess Amos isn’t taking any chances on this,” the youngest reporter, who encountered him on his way, remarked to the chief of police. The chief replied that Amos was a careful man; he wished some others would be as careful, and as sure they were right before they went ahead; a good deal of trouble would be avoided. “That’s right,” said the reporter, blithely, and went his lightsome way, while the chief scowled. Amos returned to the jail. He found the street clear, but little knots of men were gathering and then dispersing in the street facing the jail. Amos thought that he saw Foley’s face in the crowd, but it vanished as he tried to distinguish it. “No doubt he’s egging them on,” muttered Amos. He was rather taken aback when Raker (to whom he offered his suspicions) assured him, on ear evidence, that Foley was preaching peace and obedience to the law. “He’s an Irishman, too,” muttered Amos; “that’s awful queer.” He spent a long time in a grim reverie, out of which he roused himself to despatch a boy for the evening papers. “And you mark that advertisement, and take half a dozen copies to Foley”—thus ran his directions—“tell him I sent them; and if he knows anybody would like to read that ‘ad,’ to send a paper to _them_. Understand?” “Maybe it’s a prowl after a will-o’-wisp,” Amos sighed, after the boy was gone, “but it’s worth a try. Now for our young man!”