“I can’t.” Jones suddenly recollected his errand. “Mrs. Porter has ordered me to drive to Washington.” He eyed with regret the bank note which Anthony peeled from the roll. “Go ahead, Murray,” he urged, “take the gentleman where he wants to go. You ain’t needed at the house until six o’clock.” Murray wavered. The tip was a big one which Anthony held tantalizingly in view, and Mrs. Porter had told him that tea was not to be served that afternoon; as Jones said, he could be absent for an hour. Anthony read his expression and thrust the money into his palm. “Take me to Elm Ridge and back by a short cut and I’ll double the amount,” he said. Murray’s hesitation vanished, and with a wave of his hand to Jones, who had already started down the highway, he set out across the fields, the Secret Service agent at his elbow. They were in the heart of the woods which skirted the southern boundary of the Porter and Thorne estates, and were climbing the ridge when a man, catching sight of them, advanced to meet Anthony. “So Smoot reached you,” he exclaimed in relief. “I wasn’t quite sure whether you’d be at Thornedale or the Porters’. Did he tell you--” “Yes,” shutting off his assistant’s loquacity. “Where are the boys?” “Farther up; they sent me here to meet you,” keeping step with Anthony as Murray dropped a little behind. “An old darky went by some little time ago, but I lost track of him.” Anthony turned and signed to Murray to join them. “Take us the shortest way to the top of the ridge,” he ordered, and the footman once again led them up the steep incline. They were almost at the top of the ridge when Anthony, stopping to get his breath after a rapid spurt over the roughest of the climb, glanced to their left where the ground dipped into a ravine, and saw a man crouching behind a tree. Without rising, the latter signaled to the Secret Service agent, and Anthony, bidding Murray and his assistant come with him, hurried forward, and quickly reached the side of the crouching sentinel. “What is it, Boyd?” he asked, lowering his voice cautiously. For answer the man pointed down the ravine and across a clearing to a log cabin which abutted the hillside. “We’ve trailed him there,” he said, “and are only waiting for a signal to close in. Hark! was that a whistle?” Murray, to whom the question was addressed, shook his head; he had not had such strenuous exercise in years, and perspiration streamed down his face. “I don’t hear a thing,” he muttered. The excitement of the others was contagious, and under its influence the footman forgot class distinction and nudged Anthony to get his attention. “Who are you and what are you after?” Anthony, never removing his eyes from the cabin, displayed his badge. “We are trailing a dangerous counterfeiter,” he explained. “You’d better go home, you may get hurt.” Not waiting to see if his advice was followed, he beckoned to Boyd and his assistant. “Come ahead; we’ll rush the cabin.”