e formidable badge which the sheriff wore on one
strand of his suspenders, he refrained.

The next morning the newspapers told with conspicuous headlines, the
tragic sequel of Aaron Harlowe's escape. "_Found on lonely mountain_,"
they said. "_Fugitive motorist killed in storm_," one of the write-ups
was headed: "_Storm wreaks vengeance on autoist_," which was one of the
best headings of the lot. "_Sheriff's posse makes grewsome find_" was
another. And all told how Aaron Harlowe, fleeing guiltily from his
crime, had met his fate in the storm-tossed wilds of that frowning
mountain. They dwelt on the justice of Providence; they made the storm a
kind of avenging hero. It was pretty good stuff.

And that, as I said in the beginning, was where the public interest in
Aaron Harlowe ended. The rest of the strange business was connected with
Temple Camp and the scouts, and never got into the papers....

* * * * *

It was exactly like Tom Slade that something should interest him in this
tragic episode which did not interest the authorities. He left them,
quite unsatisfied in his own mind, and with some kind of a bee in his
bonnet....

CHAPTER XVIII

TRIUMPH AND----

_At_ about the time that Tom was starting back to camp, rather
thoughtful and preoccupied, Hervey Willetts was arriving at camp, not at
all thoughtful or preoccupied.

His ankle was strained and bruised, and he limped. But his rimless hat
of many holes and button-badges was perched sideways toward the back of
his head and had a new and piquant charm by reason of being faded and
water soaked. Putting not his trust in garters, which had so often,
betrayed him, he had fastened a string to his left stocking by means of
an old liberty loan pin. The upper end of this string was tied to a
stick which he carried over his shoulder, so he had only to exert a
little pressure on the stick in front to adjust his stocking.

He had evidently been to see one of his farmer friends, for he was
eating a luscious red tomato, and fate decreed that the last of this
should be ready for consumption just as he was passing within a few
yards of the bulletin board. For a moment a terrible conflict raged
within him. Should he despatch the remainder of the tomato into his
mouth, or at the bulletin board? The small remnant was red and mushy and
dripping--and the bulletin board won.

Brandishing the squashy missile, he uttered his favorite passwords