ll she knew about Joselyn, including the story she had
told Josie; so, without hesitation she answered Nan's question with
apparent frankness:

"Really, Nan, I came here on a wild-goose chase. A man named Ned
Joselyn had mysteriously disappeared and his wife feared he had met
with foul play. I traced him to this place and as Colonel Hathaway and
Mary Louise were living here--in Mrs. Joselyn's own house, by the way--
I had myself invited as their guest. Well, the long and short of it is
that Joselyn isn't murdered, after all. He simply skipped, and since I
came here to worry my poor brain over the fellow he has been
discovered, still in hiding but very much alive."

"You suspected my father of killing him?"

"I did; and so did others; but it seems he didn't. But, even with that
precious bubble burst, Mary Louise insists on my staying for a visit;
so here I am, and your little girl has become my friend."

Ingua knew this story to be quite correct, as far as it regarded her
grandfather and Ned Joselyn. Its straightforward relation renewed her
confidence in Josie. But Nan knew more than Josie thought she did,
having intercepted the girl's telegram to her father; so she said with
a slight sneer which she took no pains to conceal:

"You're a clever girl, Josie O'Gorman; a mighty clever girl. You're so
clever that I wouldn't be surprised if it tripped you, some day, and
landed you on your pug nose."

Which proved that Nan was _not_ clever, for Josie's indulgent smile
masked the thought: "She knows all and is here to defend her father. I
must look out for Nan, for she has a notion I'm still on the track of
Hezekiah Cragg."

CHAPTER XXIII
PECULIAR PEOPLE

Old Swallowtail came home at about four o'clock in the afternoon. The
day was hot, yet the old man seemed neither heated nor wearied. Without
a word to his daughter or Ingua he drew a chair to the little shady
porch and sat down in their company. Nan was mending her child's old
frock; Ingua sat thinking.

For half an hour, perhaps, silence was maintained by all. Then Nan
turned and asked:

"Have you covered your tracks?"

He turned his glassy, expressionless eyes toward her.

"My tracks, as you call them," said he, "have been laid for forty years
or more. They are now ruts. I cannot obliterate them in a day."

The woman studied his face thoughtfully.

"You are not worrying over your probable arrest?"

"No."

"Then it's all right," said she, relieved. "