sat up suddenly. “Why should you imagine anything of that sort?” he retorted sharply. “Of course it’s nonsense.”
“H’m!” said Sleuth. “It’s a rare family closet that doesn’t contain a skeleton.”
“Well, Piper, if you’ve come here to pry into private family affairs, you may as well chase yourself at once.”
“Restrain your annoyance, Sage; check your angry resentment. If you choose to unbosom yourself to me in my professional capacity, you may do so with the assurance of my honorable intention to hold inviolate any secret with which I may be entrusted.”
Fred’s face was flushed and he betrayed annoyance, which, however, he endeavored to restrain.
“Cut out that fol-de-rol, Piper. There’s no reason why I should tell you any family secrets, if we happen to have them. As you’ve just said, doubtless there are few families who do not have some minor secrets they choose to keep hidden; but, as a rule, such things concern no others than those personally interested. Again, let me repeat that you are trying to make something out of nothing, and it’s extremely ridiculous.”
“Perhaps so,” retorted Sleuth. “But tell me, did you ever hear of a man by the name of James Wilson?”
“Never. What has he to do with the matter?”
The visitor drew a folded newspaper from an inner pocket of his coat. “It’s my custom,” he said, “to take special note of the records of crime and criminals as contained in the press of the day. I never overlook anything of the sort. Here in this paper is the description of one James Wilson, alias ‘William Hunt,’ alias ‘Philip Hastings,’ but known among his pals as ‘Gentleman Jim.’ This man is described as twenty-six years of age, five feet, ten inches in height, and weighing one hundred and sixty pounds. While there are no distinguishing marks upon his person, he has blue eyes; a medium complexion; hair slightly curly; white, even teeth; a pleasant smile; an agreeable voice; and white, shapely hands, which show evidence of recent arduous labor. This labor was performed in prison, from which Jim Wilson has but lately been released. He is a confidence man and safe-breaker, and it seems that his prison experience has done little to cure him of his criminal proclivities, for it is suspected that since his release he has been concerned in certain unlawful operations. One week ago he was arrested in Harpersville, which is just over the state line, and placed in jail to await the arrival of officers who wanted him. But Mr. Wilson, alias ‘William Hunt,’ alias ‘Philip Hastings,’ alias ‘Gentleman Jim,’ is a slippery customer, and he didn’t remain in that insecure jail. Instead of doing so, he broke out of his cell, cracked the guard’s skull, and made good his escape. The guard is not expected to live, and the authorities have offered a reward of five hundred dollars for the capture of the murderous scoundrel.”
“Well!” breathed Sage, who had listened with swiftly increasing interest. “Do you think this James Wilson and the stranger Hooker talked with this forenoon are one and the same?”
“I haven’t a doubt of it,” declared Sleuth.
CHAPTER V.
BY THE LIGHT FROM THE WINDOW
“But that,” said Fred, “is practically a matter of supposition with you; you have no real proof.”
“Proof?” returned Piper reprovingly. “Why not? The circumstances are significant, and it’s only the bigoted person who denies the value of circumstantial evidence in criminal cases. The description of James Wilson applies perfectly to the mysterious stranger with whom Hooker conversed.”
“If you’ll think it over a bit, that description might apply to a great many persons. Wilson seems fortunate in having practically no personal characteristics by which he might readily be identified. It seems to me, Piper, that, casting aside your professed caution and acuteness, you have jumped at a conclusion. Simply because you happen to read about an ex-convict who has recently broken jail in a neighboring state, and the description of this convict, although in a way indefinite and unsatisfactory, apparently applies to a stranger in these parts, you immediately decide that the convict and the stranger are one and the same. I’m surprised at you, Sleuth.”
“Wait a moment,” said Piper, holding up his finger. “Let me ask you a question. Since you came to Oakdale, how often have you seen strangers in these parts who looked like tramps, talked like educated men, and deported themselves in a manner which, without the least stretch of fancy, could be called mysterious?”
“Seldom,” admitted Sage.
“Never before,” asserted Piper.
“And, because this happens to be the first instance of the sort, you feel confident in your hasty conclusion. I’m afraid you’ll never make a great detective, Sleuth, for in stories, at least, they never jump at conclusions, and they always make sure they’re right before forming a definite opinion.”
Piper was not pleased by these words. He frowned heavily and shook his head.
“You can’t deny,” he retorted, “that it was most strange that the man should inquire for your family and then take flight when he learned that you were about to appear before him.”
“That, I admit, was odd indeed. Nevertheless, I do not think it justifies you in seeking to connect us with the ex-convict, James Wilson. It’s scarcely necessary for me to tell you that we have never known such a man.”
“It gives me no small amount of satisfaction,” said Sleuth, “to hear that statement from your lips, even though it may, in a measure, make my work more difficult.”
“Your work? What do you propose to do?”
“I hope to lay this safe-cracker by the heels. I hope to enmesh him in the toils and turn him over to the stern hand of justice.”
“In which case it seems to me that your proper course would be to notify the officers. Why don’t you go to Deputy Sheriff Pickle?”
“Haw!” cried Sleuth, contemptuously snapping his fingers. “That would be the height of folly. These rural officers are blockheads in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, and William Pickle is no exception. For instance, recall the bungling mess he made of it when he arrested your friend, Benjamin Stone. Only for me, Stone might have been convicted of a crime he never committed.”
“You helped get Ben out of an unpleasant predicament,” admitted Sage; “but in that case Pickle did his duty, according to instructions. If you are so positive that you’re not bungling in this case, you’ll require the assistance of Mr. Pickle, for you can’t expect to capture James Wilson unaided.”
“And so you would advise me to apply to Pickle? You would advise me to tell him my deductions, through which he would be enabled, perhaps, to capture this jail-breaker and get the reward of five hundred dollars? That’s what would happen if he made the capture; he’d claim the reward, and get it. Oh, I know Bill Pickle!”
“If you gave the information on which the man was arrested, doubtless you could claim and obtain a portion of the reward money.”
“Perhaps so, and perhaps not. I tell you I know Bill Pickle. He’d get it all if he could.”
“But, having talked with Roy Hooker of this matter, how do you expect to keep it secret long enough to do anything yourself?”
“I didn’t tell Hooker about James Wilson. I simply questioned him regarding the stranger, and learned enough to satisfy me that he and Wilson must be the same man.”
“Well, how did you happen to tell me so much?”
Sleuth hesitated. “You see, I – I thought it might be – well, different in your case,” he stumbled. “I fancied there might be reasons why you wouldn’t care to say anything about it.”
Sage rose to his feet. “You make me tired, Piper,” he said, with a touch of angry reproof. “It’s evident that you did think my family was somehow connected with this criminal, whom we might be inclined to shield. Just to show you what a bungler you really are, I think