ty to him. Once
recorded, I am a beggar, and can make no reparation to those whom I
have defrauded."

"Is that true?" asked Ralph.

"Yes. He pretended he would drive to Wilmer, record the deeds at
Stanley Junction, return and take me safely out of the country.
Instead, he has isolated me in this desolate place. Oh, to outwit him,
Fairbanks!" continued the magnate eagerly. "I can yet defeat him if
you can assist me."

"How?"

"Under the bed is my box of private papers. Unknown to Bartlett, last
week, suspecting his scheme to rob me, believing I was dying, I
executed deeds that distributed my property among those whom I had
wronged. One deed is for your mother to adjust that twenty thousand
dollar claim. Another is for a poor fellow I sent to jail--an innocent
man. Another places my property in trust with your lawyer. Here they
are," and Farrington took some documents from the box that Ralph had
handed him. "Now then, act quickly."

Ralph looked over the papers. They were what the magnate described. He
went outside and saw the convict, showing him the deed containing the
name of "John Vance."

"Is that your name?" asked Ralph.

"It is," assented the convict.

"Then Farrington has done you tardy justice," and he explained the
situation.

In a few minutes the young fireman was bounding away towards Wilmer.

Ralph caught a train just as it was moving away from the depot. He did
not venture inside the cars, for he saw that Bartlett was aboard, but
at the next station proceeded to the locomotive.

When the train reached the limits at Stanley Junction, Ralph left it
and boarded an engine on another track bound for the depot.

He reached it some minutes in advance of the other locomotive. A
hurried run for the office of the recorder, a swift delivery of the
deeds, and then Ralph hastened after the town marshal.

They came upon Bartlett leaving the office of the recorder with a glum
and puzzled face. In his hand in a listless way he held some deeds
which he had evidently been told were worthless.

The man was disguised, but Ralph knew him at once. The marshal stepped
forward and seized his arm.

"Mr. Bartlett," he said sternly, "you are under arrest."

"Oh, you want me? What--er--for?" stammered the plotter.

"Conspiracy in the recent railroad strike," explained the official.
"Pretty serious, too--not to mention that so-called accident you had
on one of the cars, for which you wanted damages."

With a sco