“Humph! I’m not looking for old farmhouses,” said Mr. Kemble, gruffly; and then, as the whistle of the boat sounded suddenly from behind the bluff, he added, “But I must be getting back to the hotel. I’m not feeling well to-day, at all.” “Any errand I can do for you in the city?” Henry Burns called after him. But Mr. Kemble was hobbling away as fast as he could, and did not heed. “I fancy he would feel worse if he could see what I’ve got in this satchel,” chuckled Henry Burns, as Mr. Kemble went on toward the hotel, somewhat faster than he had come down. “Did you notice how suddenly he had to leave when he heard the boat’s whistle?” “Yes,—but what on earth were you thinking of, Henry, talking as you did to him?” said George. “It scared him in an instant when you told him he would be running around in a few days as lively as any of us. I almost believe he half-suspects something.” “How can he?” replied the other. “Perhaps my remark about his running around in a few days may have startled him at first. That was a sudden jolt to his guilty conscience. But, upon reflection, he decided it was only a coincidence. Then he did look a little queer when I spoke of farmhouses, didn’t he?” “He certainly did,” said George. “What possessed you to do it? You might upset everything.” “No,” answered Henry Burns. “He don’t suspect us. By the way, do you remember how we got into this thing in the beginning?” “Why, what do you mean?” “If I remember rightly,” said Henry Burns, speaking with a slight drawl, “we started out last evening to have some fun. My little chat with our friend is the nearest approach to fun that this scrape has afforded me so far.” “That may have been fun for you,” said George. “To my mind it was very much like playing with fire; but here’s the steamer. You’ve got my note of introduction to father?” “Yes, I’ve got everything all right. Now keep your eyes open and expect me to-morrow night.” And Henry Burns crossed the gangplank to the steamer. The train from Mayville to Benton reached its destination at eleven o’clock, and at that hour in the forenoon Henry Burns walked briskly out of the station. Half an hour later he stood in the waiting-room at the wealthy banking-house of Curtis & Earle. “Well, what do you want, young man?” asked an important and decidedly officious attendant, bustling up to him. “This is Mr. Curtis, I presume,” answered Henry Burns, blandly, but with the faintest suspicion of a twinkle in his eye. “No, it isn’t,” said the man, abruptly, and looking a little foolish as several other attendants tittered audibly. “And, what’s more, you cannot see Mr. Curtis, for he is just preparing to leave for the day.” “But I must see him,” insisted Henry Burns. “I’ve got some very important information for him. Have the kindness to take this in to him,” and he handed the surprised attendant a card upon which he had written in a clear but boyish hand: