Reaching a crossroad Wyndham hesitated, then turning his car into the highway which skirted Thornedale, he continued along it until opposite the embankment where he had encountered Millicent Porter the night before and Beverly Thorne that morning. He stopped the car and, going over to the roadside, walked along it. The crushed and bedraggled condition of the creeping myrtle vines a little further on attracted his attention, and bending down he thrust his hand along until he touched the muzzle of the old cannon. Bending still farther downward he ran his hand inside the cannon and withdrew it a second later--empty. “Could I have been wrong?” he muttered. “Millicent used to hide her toys and candy there--what more likely than that she thought of the old cannon if she wished to hide--” He broke off to stare moodily at the ground. Someone besides himself had examined the cannon since he had last been there; otherwise he would have noticed the torn vines that morning. And that man could have been none other than Beverly Thorne; he also knew of the cannon--had he, too, gone away empty-handed? Wyndham was in no pleasant humor when he stopped at the garage and, turning over his car to the chauffeur, he went at once to the house. Instead of finding his aunt in the library as he had hoped, a stranger rose at his entrance and bowed politely. “Is this Mr. Wyndham?” “Yes.” Wyndham’s manner was not overly cordial; it was not customary to admit strangers to the library; they were usually shown into the reception-room. “Have you called to see my aunt, Mrs. Porter?” “No, sir, I came to see you.” The stranger took out his card case. “I gave my card to the butler and he asked me to wait in here. I am Sam Anthony, of the United States Secret Service,” displaying his badge as he presented his card to Wyndham. Wyndham barely glanced at the engraved pasteboard; his manner had thawed perceptibly. “Sit down, Mr. Anthony,” he said, dragging forward a chair. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. What can I do for you?” “If you will answer a few questions.” Anthony resumed his seat. “Were you in Brentano’s bookstore yesterday afternoon?” “I was.” “You ordered some visiting-cards for Miss Vera Deane?” “I did.” Wyndham’s surprise at the question was apparent. “And paid for the cards with a ten-dollar Treasury bill?” “Yes,” responded Wyndham, and his manner had grown alert. “What then?” “The bill was an exceedingly dangerous counterfeit.” “What!” Wyndham sat bolt upright. “Are you sure?” “Positive.” Anthony took out his bill-folder and selected a gold bank note. “It’s a wonder,” he added, feeling it tenderly. “Never would have aroused suspicion at the bank but that Chief Connor warned them only today to be on the lookout for such a note.”