is chair, and went to bed.

The next morning he rolled the trousers in a bundle and took them with
him on his way to his paper-hanging job. On Main Street he stopped at
Frank the Tailor's--"Pants Cleaned and Pressed, 35 Cents." He unrolled
the trousers and laid them across the counter.

"Can you remove those stains?" he asked.

"Oh, sure I couldt!" said Frank. "I make me no droubles by dot, Mister
Gupp. Shust dis morning alretty I didt it der same ding. You fall ofer
der vire too, yes?"

"Certainly. I expect it was the same wire. Into a flower-bed."

"Chess," said Frank. "Like Misder Vestcote, yes? Cudding across der
corner, yes, und didn't see der vire?"

"That so?" said Detective Gubb. "You don't mean old Mr. Westcote, do
you?"

"Sure, yes!" said Frank. "He falls by der flower-bed in, und stains
his knees alretty, shust like dot. Vell, I have me dese pants retty by
you dis efenings. You vant dem pressed too?"

"Press 'em, an' clean 'em, an' make 'em nice," said Philo Gubb, and
went out.

[Illustration: UNDER HIS ARM HE CARRIED A SMALL BUNDLE]

Old John Westcote, and pansy stains on his trouser knees, was it? The
thing seemed impossible, but so did un-burglary, for that matter. Old
John Westcote was one of the richest men in Riverbank. He was a
retired merchant and as mean as sin. He was the last man in Riverbank
any one would suspect of leaving spoons and forks in other people's
houses. But how did it come that he had pansy stains on the knees of
his trousers? Philo Gubb thought of old John Westcote all day, and
toward night he hit on a solution. Wedding presents! From what he had
heard, old John was--or had been--the sort of man to accept a wedding
invitation, go to the reception and eat his fill, and never send the
bride so much as a black wire hairpin. And now, grown old, his
conscience might be hurting him. He might be in that semi-senile state
when restitution becomes a craze, and the ungiven wedding presents
might press upon his conscience. It was not at all unlikely that he
had chosen the un-burglary method of giving the presents at this
late date. The form of the un-burgled goods--forks and spoons--and the
initials engraved upon them, made this more likely.

That night Detective Gubb did not report in person or by docket to
Marshal Wittaker. At seven o'clock he was hiding in the hazel brush
opposite old John Westcote's lonely house on Pottex Lane. At
seven-fifteen the old man tottered from his ga