m enough.
And you couldn't have the others arrested without bringing him into
it."

"You don't need to argue any longer," Lyman replied. "The merest
reference to his old mother settles it with me. The law part would be
a farce anyway. But let me remind you that it is quite a serious thing
when an American citizen is ordered to leave his home at the whim of a
scoundrel."

He bade them good night and went up to his room. The door lay upon the
floor and fragments of the cast-iron lock were scattered about. The
image of Sawyer arose before him, as he had appeared in the office,
and so hateful and disturbing was the picture, that he arose and
bathed his face, as if to wash out the vision. He heard a man's voice
below and he stepped to the head of the stairs and listened. He
recognized the voice of the town marshal. Already the law had begun
its feeble farce. The marshal came up the stairs and looked around, at
the door and the fragments of the lock. He took up a bit of iron and
put it into his pocket, as if he had found a ton's weight of evidence.

"I'll take this along," he said gravely.

"Help yourself," said Lyman.

"Yes, for little things count," the marshal replied with the air of a
great and mysterious detective. "And now," he added, "have you any
idea or any suspicion as to who led this gang?"

Lyman had sat down and was crossed-legged, swinging one foot. "Oh," he
answered carelessly, "I guess you know who it is. However, we will let
the subject drop. I don't wish to discuss it."

"But, my dear sir, the law--"

Lyman held up his hand. "Let us hear nothing more about the law," said
he. "Good night."

The marshal tramped down the stairs and Lyman went to bed to forget
the mob and to dream of the rippling creek and a voice that was softer
and sweeter than the echo of a flute. At early morning there came a
rapping on the stairway, to summon him to breakfast. Old Jasper, with
his hot hands in his pockets and with a sick expression of countenance
was doddering about the sitting room.

"Ah, Lord," he said, when Lyman stepped down upon the floor. "Walt a
minute. Let me shut this door. The smell of the kitchen gig--gig---
gags me. Lyman, I do reckon I ought to take a rusty knife and cut my
infamous old throat. Yes, I do. I deserve it. And all because I wanted
to renew my youth. I know I've said it before, but I want to say right
now that I'll never touch another drop of the stuff as long as I live,
I don't care i