hters of the rich.
Lazily they drifted and drove and walked through the wonderful hills,
famed throughout the world, and lazily they wondered why the rest of the
world lived. In the hills now were the Randalls, the Farnsworths, the
Brackens, the Brewsters, the Van Wagenens, the Rolfes and a host of
others. Tinkletown saw them occasionally as they came jaunting by in
their traps and brakes and automobiles--but it is extremely doubtful if
they saw Tinkletown in passing.

Anderson Crow swelled and blossomed in the radiance of his own
importance. In his old age he was becoming fastidious. Only in the
privacy of his own back yard did he go without the black alpaca coat; he
was beginning to despise the other days, when he had gone coatless from
dawn till dark, on the street or off. His badges were pinned neatly to
his lapel and not to his suspenders, as in the days of yore. His dignity
was the same, but the old sense of irritation was very much modified. In
these new days he was considerate--and patronising. Was he not one of
the wealthiest men in town--with his six thousand dollars laid by? Was
he not its most honoured citizen, not excepting the mayor and selectmen?
Was he not, above all, a close friend of the Bonners?

The Bonners were to spend August in the Congressman's home across the
big river. This fact alone was enough to stir the Crow establishment to
its most infinitesimal roots. Rosalie was to be one of the guests at the
house party, but her foster-sisters were not the kind to be envious.
They revelled with her in the preparations for that new season of
delight.

With the coming of the Bonners, Anderson once more revived his
resolution to unravel the mystery attending Rosalie's birth. For some
months this ambition had lain dormant, but now, with the approach of the
man she loved, the old marshal's devotion took fire and he swore daily
that the mystery should be cleared "whether it wanted to be or not."

He put poor old Alf Reesling through the "sweat box" time and again, and
worthless Tom Folly had many an unhappy night, wondering why the marshal
was shadowing him so persistently.

"Alf," demanded Anderson during one of the sessions, "where were you on
the night of February 18, 1883? Don't hesitate. Speak up. Where were
you? Aha, you cain't answer. That looks suspicious."

"You bet I c'n answer," said Alf bravely, blinking his blear eyes. "I
was in Tinkletown."

"What were you doin' that night?"

"I was s