saw the grim old financier as he stalked muttering through the silent streets of the slumbering town. He saw him open the big door of the bank, and heard his disappointed growl as he faced the darkness. Old Simon, with fumbling hands, found and struck a match; then he groped his way back to his office and lighted the gas. Fred saw him as he stared round the room, and, with the gasp of an animal, pounced on the letter he had written; he saw, as if he had been on the spot, the distorted, terrified face of the bewildered old miser. Then what had he done? He had gone quaking and whimpering to the home of the sheriff near by; he had waked the officer by pounding on the door, and ordered the immediate pursuit of his son as an absconding thief. The telegram had left Stafford before midnight; it had passed the fugitive as he slept, and the policeman now looking under the cars was only one of scores who were bent upon hunting him down. Yes, it was all over. There was nothing left now but to be taken back to Stafford, handcuffed as a common felon. He crept to the car door and looked out. The policeman had paused in his search, and was coming directly across to him. A feeling of odd and almost soothing resignation came over the young man; at any rate, he would not hide like a coward. He was guilty, and he would take his punishment. So he sank upon the bench at the door and calmly eyed the officer as he crossed the tracks, playfully swinging the polished club which was strapped to his wrist. “Good-morning!” the man said, looking up. “You are not the conductor of this train, are you?” “No,” Fred answered, wonderingly; “he's just gone up-town.” The policeman swung his club. “Got a match in your pocket? I want to smoke so bad I can taste it.” Walton fumbled in his pocket and produced some matches, and, still wondering, he reached over and put them into the extended hand. The man in uniform was young, clear of skin and eye, and had a good face--a face which Walton no longer dreaded, which, indeed, he felt that he could like. “Tough job I'm on now, you can bet your life,” the policeman said, as he struck the match on the iron ladder of the car and applied it to a half-smoked cigar. “What sort of job is it?” Walton asked.