be in a
particularly pleasant humor.

"Got a little extra to spend to-day," he declared, with a chuckle.
"Picked up twenty dollars this mornin' that I never expected to see
again."

"So? You're lucky."

"That's what I thought. Say, Kendrick, have you had any--hum--business
dealings with that man Phillips? No," with another chuckle, "I suppose
you haven't. He doesn't love you over and above, I understand. My wife
and the rest of the women folks seem to think he's first mate to Saint
Peter, but, between ourselves, he's always been a little too much of a
walkin' oil barrel to suit me. He borrowed twenty of me a good while ago
and I'd about decided to write it down as a dead loss. But an hour or so
ago he ran afoul of me and, without my saying a word, paid up like a
man, every cent. Had a roll of bills as thick as a skys'l yard, he did.
Must have had a lucky voyage, I guess. Eh? Ha, ha!"

He moved off, still chuckling. Kendrick walked down the lower road
pondering on what he had heard. Egbert, the professed pauper, in
possession of money and voluntarily paying his debts. What might that
mean?

Sarah met him at the door. She seemed distressed.

"There!" she cried, as he approached. "If this isn't too bad! And I was
afraid of it, too. You've walked way down here, Sears, on those poor
legs of yours, and Mr. Phillips has gone again. And I don't think he'll
be back before night, if he is then. He said not to worry if he wasn't,
because he might have to go to Trumet. Isn't it a shame?"

It was a shame and a rather desperate shame. This was Tuesday. If the
interview with Egbert was to take place at all, it should be that day,
or the next. He looked at his sister's face and something in her
expression caused him to ask a question.

"What is it, Sarah?" he demanded. "What's the rest of it?"

She hesitated. "Sears," she said, after looking over her shoulder to
make sure none of the children was within hearing, "there's somethin'
else. I--I don't know, but--but I'm almost _sure_ Mr. Phillips won't be
back to-night. I think he's gone to stay."

"Stay? What do you mean? Did he take his dunnage--his things--with him?"

"No. His trunk is in his room. And he didn't have a satchel or a valise
in his hand. But, Sears, I can't understand it--they're gone--his
valises are gone."

"Gone! Gone where?"

"I don't know. That's the funny part of it. He's always kept two valises
in his room, a big one and a little one. I went into h