oking into that pocket. And I believe--Lite, I never said
anything about it, but somebody kept coming to the house in the night
and hunting around through all the rooms. He never came into my room,
so I--I didn't bother him; but I've wondered what he was after. It
just occurred to me that maybe--"

"I never could figure out what he was after, either," Lite observed
quietly.

"You?" Jean turned her head, so that her eyes shone in the light of a
street lamp while she looked up at him. "How in the world did you know
about him?"

Lite laughed drily. "I don't think there's much concerns you that I
don't know," he confessed. "I saw him, I guess, every time he came
around. He couldn't have made a crooked move,--and got away with it.
But I never could figure him out exactly."

Jean looked at him, touched by the care of her that he had betrayed in
those few words. Always she had accepted him as the one friend who
never failed her, but lately,--since the advent of the motion-picture
people, to be exact,--a new note had crept into his friendship; a new
meaning into his watching over her. She had sensed it, but she had
never faced it openly. She pulled her thoughts away from it now.

"Did you know who he was?"

It was like Jean to come straight to the point. Lite smiled faintly;
he knew that question would come, and he knew that he would have to
answer it.

"Sure. I made it my business to know who he was."

"Who was it, Lite?"

Lite did not say. He knew that question was coming also, but he did
not know whether he ought to answer it.

"It was Uncle Carl, wasn't it?"

Lite glanced down at her quickly. "You're a good little guesser."

"Then it was that letter he was after." She was silent for a minute,
and then she looked at her watch. "And I can't get at those chaps
before to-morrow!" She sighed and leaned back against the post.

"Lite, if it was worth all that hunting for, it must mean something to
us. I wonder what it can be; don't you know?"

"No," said Lite slowly, "I don't. And it's something a man don't want
to do any guessing about."

This, Jean felt, was a gentle reproof for her own speculations upon the
subject. She said no more about the letter.

"I sent him a telegram," she informed Lite irrelevantly, "saying I'd
located Art and was going to take him back there. I wonder what he
thought when he got that!"

Lite turned half around and stared down at her. He opened his lips to
spe