that to be afraid of, and Colonel Witham seated
himself in a chair by the desk, with the lantern beside him on the
floor. Now that he was here, he scarce knew why he had come.

What was that? Was that a foot-fall on some floor above? Colonel Witham
sat bolt upright in his seat and listened. He took out his handkerchief
and mopped his brow. Then he was angry with himself again. He was
certainly nervous to-night.

Nervous indeed; for he came out of his chair with a bound, as the wind
suddenly swooped down on the old mill, shrieked past one corner, with a
cry that was almost like a voice, and went on up the stream, crackling
the dead branches of trees and moaning through the pines.

Colonel Witham started for the door. It was no use; nature was against
him--conspiring to fill him with alarm. He was foolish to have come. He
would go back to the inn.

But then his natural stubbornness asserted itself. Should a wild night
drive him out of his own mill--when the law couldn't? He turned
resolutely and went slowly back. Nor did he pause on the main floor, but
started up the first flight of stairs.

Another shriek of the wind, that rattled the loose window panes on the
floor above, as though by a hundred unseen hands. The colonel crouched
down on the stairs for a moment--and then, oh, what a hideous sound was
that!

Somewhere, from the vague spaces of the upper part of the mill, there
was wafted down to him such a noise as he had never heard; it squeaked
and it thrummed; it moaned deep, and it wailed with an unearthly,
piercing sound. There was the sorrow and the agony of a thousand voices
in it. It blended now with the wind, and added to the cry of that; again
it rose above the wind, and pierced the colonel's very soul.

Colonel Witham, clutching his lantern with desperation, fairly slid down
the stairs, his legs wabbling weakly as he tried to stay himself. He
landed in a heap at the foot. Then, rising with a mighty effort, he fled
from the mill, up the road to the Half Way House.

Some moments later, seven boys, shaking with laughter, emerged from the
garret room and resumed their search.

Colonel Witham had heard the strains of Henry Burns's horse-fiddle.

CHAPTER XVI

THE GOLDEN COIN LOST AGAIN

"Let's look, Tim! Let me see. Say, where'd you find it? Bring it here to
the light."

The crowd of boys, much excited, was jostling Little Tim, plying him
with more questions than he could answer, and each one