ishes but one man in a town or city with his products, but there
are a good many towns and cities to supply."

"Is he printing sermons now?" asked Josie.

"Perhaps so; or it may be he is printing some circular to be
distributed to the members of the C. I. L. Jim Bennett, the husband of
the postmistress here, was once a practical printer, and he is a
staunch member of the Irish fraternity. Cragg has known of this
underground cavern for years, and at one time it was a regular
meeting-place for his order of Champions. So he bought a printing
press and, to avoid the prying eyes of his neighbors, established it
here. That is the whole story of Cragg's 'crime,' Josie, and it is
very simple when once fully explained."

"Do you mean to say you've discovered all this in the two days since
you've been here?" asked the girl, in amazement.

"Every bit of it. I came prepared to arrest a gang of counterfeiters,
and stumbled on this very interesting but quite harmless plot."

"Where have you been hiding since Sunday?" she inquired.

"Why, I didn't hide at all," he asserted. "Don't you remember giving me
a ride yesterday in the Hathaway automobile?"

Josie sat silent. She was glad it was so dark under that shelf of rock,
for she would rather her father did not read her humiliation and
self-reproach.

"Daddy," she said, with a despairing accent, "I'm going to study to be
a cook or a stenographer. I'll never make a decent detective--like Nan,
for instance."

O'Gorman laughed.

"Poor Nan!" he exclaimed. "She's been more befuddled than you over this
mysterious case. And Cragg is her own father, too. Come, Josie, it's
getting late; let's go home."

CHAPTER XXVI
THE PLOT

When they were over the stones and in the lane again, walking arm in
arm toward the village, Josie's logical mind turned from her own
failure to a consideration of the story her father had just told her.

"I can't understand," she remarked, "how Joselyn came into this affair,
what happened to him, or why he is once more the secret associate of
old Cragg."

"Joselyn," said the old detective, "is a clever grafter--in other
words, an unmitigated scoundrel. Now do you understand?"

"Not quite," confessed Josie.

"He's Irish."

"Isn't his name Scotch?"

"Yes, but Joselyn isn't his name. If you're inclined to pick up his
record and follow it through, you'll probably find him pursuing his
various adventures under many aliases. He doesn't belong in this