It was a little more than two weeks before Colonel Witham did return to his hotel. Had he gotten out of the way, thus hurriedly, to see what turn James Ellison's affairs might take? Had he hopes that the deeds he knew of might by some chance not be found? Was his absence carefully timed, to allow of whatever search was bound to be made to be done and gotten over with, ere he should presume to lay claim to the property? It would not do to declare himself owner, should the chance arise, and then have the deeds that he had given back secretly to Ellison turn up. It were safer surely to remain away and see what would happen. At all events, when on a certain day the droning of the mill told that its wheels had resumed their interrupted grinding, there might have been seen, within, the burly form of Colonel Witham, moving about as one with authority. Short, curt were his answers. There was little to be made out of him by Lawyer Estes or anyone else. What was his business was his--and nobody else's. There were the deeds, duly signed. If anyone had a better claim to the property, let him show it. As for the Ellison boys--and all other boys--they could keep away, unless they had corn to be ground. The mill was no place for them. And yet, as the days went by, one might have fancied, if he had observed, that all was not easy in the mind of the new owner of the mill. They might have noted in his manner a continual restlessness; a wandering about the mill from room to room; prying into odd corners here and there; pounding upon the beams and partitions; poking under stair-ways; rummaging into long unused chutes and bins; for ever hunting, anxious-eyed; as though the mill had an evil and troublous influence over his spirits. And now and then, pausing in the midst of his searching, the new owner might have been heard to exclaim, "Well, if I can't find them, nobody else can. That's sure." But Colonel Witham did not discontinue his searching. And the mill gave up no secrets. CHAPTER XII THE GOLDEN COIN Mill stream, coming down from afar up the country, on its way to Samoset river and bay, flowed in many moods. Now it glided deep and smooth, almost imperceptibly, along steep banks that went up wooded to the sky line. Again it hurled itself recklessly down rocky inclines, frothing and foaming and fighting its way by sheer force through barriers of reefs. Now it went swiftly and pleasantly over sand shallows, rippling and seeming almost to sing a tune as it ran; again it turned back on its course in little eddies, backing its waters into shaded, still pools, where the pickerel loved to hide.