It was so evidently a trumped-up case that some judges would have dismissed it. But the Mayor was human; this woman had flouted his wife; her boy had licked his boy. The fine might be anything from one hundred up to one thousand dollars. The Mayor was magnanimous; he imposed the minimum fine. So the widow was mulcted a hundred dollars for playing the rôle of good Samaritan. Mason and Hall got fifty dollars to divide, and five minutes later were speeding out of town. They left no address. In this precautionary mood their instincts were right, though later events proved them to be without avail. Just one hour after the disappearance of Mason, Kenna came to town and heard how the Widow's open-hearted kindness had led her into a snare. His first question was: "Where is he?" No one knew, but every one agreed that he had gone in a hurry. Now it is well known that experienced men seeking to elude discovery make either for the absolute wilderness or else the nearest big city. There is no hiding place between. Kenna did not consult Kitty. He rode, as fast as horse could bear his robust bulk to Petersburg where Mason had in some sort his headquarters. It was noon the next day before Bill found him, sitting in the far end of the hardware shop. Mason never sat in the saloons, for the barkeepers would not have him there. He did not loom large, for he always tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, and his glance was shifty. Bill nodded to the iron dealer and passed back to the stove end of the store. Yes, there sat Mason. They recognized each other. The whiskey sneak rose in trepidation. But William said calmly, "Sit down." "Well," he continued with a laugh, "I hear you got ahead of the Widdy." "Yeh." "Well, she can afford it," said Bill. "She's getting rich." Mason breathed more freely. "I should think ye'd carry a revolver in such a business," said William, inquiringly. "Bet I do," said Mason. "Let's have a look at it," said Kenna. Mason hesitated. "Ye better let me see it, or----" There was a note of threat for the first time. Mason drew his revolver, somewhat bewildered. Before the informer knew what move was best, Kenna reached out and took the weapon. "I hear ye got twenty-five dollars from the Widdy." "Yeh." And Mason began to move nervously under the cold glitter in Kenna's eyes. "I want ye to donate that to the orphan asylum. Here, Jack!" Kenna called to the clerk, "Write on a big envelope 'Donation for the orphan asylum. Conscience money.'" "What does it say?" inquired Bill, for he could not read. The clerk held out the envelope and read the inscription. "All right," said Bill, "now, Mason, jest so I won't lose patience with you and act rough like, hand over that twenty-five." "I ain't got it, I tell you. It's all gone." "Turn out your pockets, or I will." The whiskey sneak unwillingly turned out his pockets. He had fifteen dollars and odd.