t on. "You know the fix I'm in. I had the
plan to get Potts out. It was a good plan, too. The more I think of it
the better I like it. With any man in the world but Potts that plan
would have been a stroke of genius. But I don't mind telling you that
this thing has robbed me of sleep for three months. Potts has got me
talking to myself. I wake up talking of him, out of the little sleep I
do get. I'll tell you the fact--if Potts is here six weeks longer, and
let to finish this canvas, my influence in Slocum County is gone. I
might as well give up and move on to another town myself, where my
dreadful secret is unknown."

"Nonsense! But what can Billy Durgin do?"

"Well, I'm desperate, that's all. And one night Billy had me meet him up
by the cemetery--he came disguised in long black whiskers--and he told
me that Potts was James Carruthers, better known to the police of two
continents as 'Smooth Jim,' wanted for robbing the post-office at Lima,
Ohio. Of course that's nonsense. Potts hasn't the wit to rob a
post-office. But I didn't have the heart to tell Billy so. I told him,
instead, that this was the chance of his life; to fasten to Potts like
an enraged leech, and draw out every secret of his dark past. You can't
tell--Billy might find something to pry him into the next county with,
anyway."

"He certainly looked charged with information this afternoon. He was
fizzing like an impatient soda fountain. But why did he follow me?"

"Well, that might be Billy's roundabout way of getting to me. The other
time he shadowed Marvin Chislett to get a message to me. If you're a
detective, you can't do things the usual way, or all may be lost."

At that instant a low whistle sounded in our ears, a small missile was
thrown over the evergreen hedge, bounding almost to our feet, and a
slight but muscular figure was seen retreating swiftly into the dusk.

Solon sprang for the mysterious object. It was a stone, about which was
wrapped a sheet of paper. This he took off and smoothed out. By the
fading light we made out to read: "Meet me at graveyard steps at
midnight. You know who."

We looked at each other. "Why didn't he come in here?" I asked.

"That wouldn't have been detective-like."

"But the graveyard at midnight!"

"Well, perhaps he won't hold out for midnight--Billy is merely poetic at
times--and maybe if we hurry along, we can catch up with him and have it
out by the marble works there instead of going clear on to the