siastically, "and
here's your ten dollars. It's a favor I'll never forget, mind, for
many's the day I've driven the beauties, before Squire McInnis went up,
and we all had to go."

[Illustration: "Cap'n, you're a good fellow."]

"That was a big failure," replied the coachman, knowingly. "You just see
that the horses are done off all right, won't you? I must look after the
carriage."

"It was lucky for me that I happened to know the history of these
horses," mused Jerry Belknap, for he it was who leaned confidingly over
to stroke the sleek sides of one of the splendid bays, and who had
bribed Mr. Lamotte's coachman with a ten dollar bill. "If I drive the
Lamottes, I'm sure of a hearing, and no audience; at the worst if they
should take in a third party, but they won't, I can find a way to make
myself and my wants known." And he sauntered across to the carriage
house and critically inspected the splendid landau that was being rolled
out upon the gravel.

He had returned to W---- on foot, from a near railway station, reaching
the town within five hours from the time he left it.

During this time, however, his personal appearance had undergone a
marked change. He was rubicund, and more youthful of countenance;
shabbily smart in dress; excessively "horsey," and somewhat loud in
manner.

During his intercourse with the Lamottes he had learned, from Frank,
that their blooded bays had once been the property of a wealthy and
prominent citizen of New York, who having failed, after the modern
fashion, had given Jasper Lamotte the first bid for the valuable span.
Given thus much, the rest was easy. Representing himself as a former
coachman of this bankrupt New Yorker, he had told his little story. He
was looking about him for a place in which to open a "small, but neat"
livery stable, had wandered into W---- that morning, and having
considerable cash about him, all his savings in fact, he had not cared
to tempt robbers, by appearing too "high toned."

Of course he had heard at once of the murder, and then remembered that
Lamotte was the name of the gentleman who had bought his favorite horses
from his former master.

"I never pulled reins over a span equal to 'em," he said, with much
pathos. "I never had the same liking for any other pair of critters;
they was the apple of my eye, and I'd give just ten dollars to draw
reins over 'em once more--even to a funeral."

His little ruse was successful; the bait was instantly s