It was most comfortable on that porch with its southern exposure, the fireflies dancing to the chirp of the crickets, the span of the railroad trestle looking like a fairy bridge against the background of the sky. Mr. Keeler decided to stay. Roy wondered what the others would think if they knew that their guest was aware of what had recently befallen the family. He should most decidedly not have told all he had if he had foreseen what was coming. At ten o’clock Eva suggested that Mr. Keeler was probably tired from his journey, so the boys went up stairs with him. “I’ll come down and lock up,” Roy called back to his sisters. When he returned in a few minutes, leaving Rex talking bicycle with their guest, he found the girls standing in the library, over a large book which they had open on the table before them. “Look there!” exclaimed Jess, almost in a tragic tone, just as he entered. She was pointing at something in the upper left hand corner of the page. Eva started as she looked at it and then turned a frightened face toward Roy. “Roy, come here,” she said. “Why, what’s the matter with you girls?” he exclaimed. “You look as if you’d each seen a ghost.” “It’s worse than that!” answered Jess in a sepulchral tone. “Look here.” She pointed to the spot on which Eva’s gaze had been riveted. “Why, it’s Mr. Keeler’s picture!” exclaimed Roy. “Read what it says underneath,” went on Jess in the same tone. Roy let his eyes drop to the printed lines beneath the portrait, which was one of six which adorned the page. This is what he read: Martin Blakesley, _Alias “Gentleman George,” “Lancelot Marker” etc., Confidence Man._ “What book is this?” asked Roy. His voice was hard. He hardly recognized it himself when he heard it. “‘Noted Criminals of the United States,’” replied Jess. “Syd brought it home last week to look up something or other he wanted to use in a case. I was glancing through it this morning and saw this picture then. I knew I’d seen Mr. Keeler somewhere before as soon as I laid eyes on him this afternoon.” “Perhaps it’s only somebody that looks like him,” said Eva faintly. “He has a larger mustache than that now.” “It’s had plenty of time to grow,” rejoined Jess significantly. “This book was published two or three years ago. See, here is his history. No. 131,” and she began to look over the pages till she came to the paragraphs of description accompanying the portrait. The three heads bent over the page eagerly, while Roy, in a low voice, read the facts about No. 131. He had been in jail twice, it seemed, his last term having expired, as Roy figured, some four months previous. He was noted for his suave manners and the facility with which he imposed on strangers. “That’s the man,” murmured Jess. “What are we going to do?” Eva stepped back to the sofa and sank down upon it as if every bit of strength had gone away from her. “It doesn’t seem possible,” was all Roy could say for the moment.