on," said his wife thoughtfully and somewhat
stealthily, "let's go slow about this thing. What do you want to find
her for?"

"Why--why, doggone it, Eva, what air you talkin' about?" began he in
amazement.

"Well, it's just this way: I don't think we can earn a thousand dollars
a year easier than takin' care of this child. Don't you see? Suppose we
keep her fer twenty years. That means twenty thousand dollars, don't it?
It beats a pension all to pieces."

"Well, by ginger!" gasped Anderson, vaguely comprehending. "Fifty years
would mean fifty thousand dollars, wouldn't it. Gee whiz, Eva!"

"I don't imagine we can keep her that long."

"No," reflectively; "the chances are she'd want ter git married inside
of that time. They always--

"'Tain't that, Anderson. You an' me'd have to live to be more'n a
hundred years old."

"That's so. We ain't spring chickens, are we, deary?"

She put her hard, bony hand in his and there was a suspicion of moisture
in the kindly old eyes.

"I love to hear you call me 'deary,' Anderson. We never get too old for
that."

He coughed and then patted her hand rather confusedly. Anderson had long
since forgotten the meaning of sentiment, but he was surprised to find
that he had not forgotten how to love his wife.

"Shucks!" he muttered bravely. "We'll be kissin' like a couple of young
jay birds first thing we know. Doggone if it ain't funny how a baby,
even if it is some one else's, kinder makes a feller foolisher'n he
intends to be." Hand in hand they watched the sleeping innocent for
several minutes. Finally the detective shook himself and spoke:

"Well, Eva, I got to make a bluff at findin' out whose baby it is, ain't
I? My reputation's at stake. I jest have to investigate."

"I don't see that any harm can come from that, Anderson," she replied,
and neither appreciated the sarcasm unintentionally involved.

"I won't waste another minute," he announced promptly. "I will stick to
my theory that the parents live in Tinkletown."

"Fiddlesticks!" snorted Mrs. Crow disgustedly, and then left him to
cultivate the choleric anger her exclamation had inspired.

"Doggone, I wish I hadn't patted her hand," he lamented. "She didn't
deserve it. Consarn it, a woman's always doin' something to spoil
things."

And so he fared forth with his badges and stars, bent on duty, but not
accomplishment. All the town soon knew that he was following a clew, but
all the town was at sea concerning its