"The thieves lured our neighbors away from town. The patrolman who walks this beat is bound and gagged and is probably reposing back of the billboard in the next block." "Murphy, you watch this man while I make a call on the neighbors," said the officer who seemed to be in authority. When he returned he was frowning seriously. "We'd better telephone to the precinct to search for Dennison. There's nobody at home in either house and there's nobody back of the billboards. Untie the man." When this was done, the officer said: "Now, tell us what's happened; and don't forget any of the details." Jones told a simple and convincing story; it was so simple and convincing that the police believed it without question. "Well, if that ain't the limit! Did you hear any autos outside?" "I don't recollect," said Jones, stretching his legs gratefully. "Why?" "The auto bandits held up a bank messenger to-day and got away with twenty thousand. Whenever a man draws down a big sum they seem to know about it. And say, Murphy, call up and have the river police look out for a new-fangled airship. Your master may have been rescued," turning to Jones. "If I were only sure of that, sir!" When the police took themselves off Jones proceeded to act upon those plans laid down by Hargreave early that night. When this was done he sought his bed and fell asleep, the sleep of the exhausted. When Hargreave picked up Jones to share his fortunes, he had put his trust in no ordinary man. A dozen reporters trooped out to the Hargreave home, only to find it deserted. And while they were ringing bells and tapping windows, the man they sought was tramping up and down the platform of the railway station. Through all this time Norton, the reporter, Hargreave's only friend, slept the sleep of the just and unjust. He rarely opened his eyes before noon. Group after group of passengers Jones eyed eagerly. Often, just as he was in the act of approaching a couple of young women, some man would hurry up, and there would be kisses or handshakes. At length the crowd thinned, and then it was that he discovered a young girl perhaps eighteen, accompanied by a young woman in the early thirties. They had the appearance of eagerly awaiting some one. Jones stepped forward with a good deal of diffidence. "You are waiting for some one?" "Yes," said the elder woman, coldly. "A broken bracelet?" The distrust on both faces vanished instantly. The young girl's face brightened, her eyes sparkled with suppressed excitement. "You are ... my father?" "No, miss," very gravely. "I am the butler." "Let me see your part of the bracelet," said the young girl's guardian, a teacher who had been assigned to this delicate task by Miss Farlow, who could not bring herself to say good-by to Florence anywhere except at the school gates. The halves were produced and examined. "I believe we may trust him, Florence." "Let us hurry to the taxicab. We must not stand here." "My mother?"