When Frank reached the post office, he found several letters for his parents and himself. One was post-marked Charleston, and was in the handwriting of his brother Mark.

“Hullo! Mark must have reached the United States at last,” he said to himself. “Wonder when he will be home?”

He knew his parents would be anxious to read the communication, so hastened home without delay.

“Here is a letter from Mark!” he called out, and this brought his mother and his father to the dining room.

“Let me see the letter, Frank,” said his mother, and he cut it open for her. “I’ll read it aloud,” she added, and walked to the window, to get the benefit of the light.

The communication ran as follows:

“Dear Folks at Home: I suppose you will all be glad to know that I am back in the United States safe and sound once more. I trust this finds you all well.

“We had a good trip from, Cuba, and are now unloading a portion of our cargo here. As soon as that is done, we shall take some new cargo aboard, and then sail for Philadelphia, where my trip will come to an end. I reckon I have had enough of the ocean for the present, and shall either go to school again or else get something to do ashore. A life on the ocean wave is all well enough in a story book, but when you’ve got to be on deck in all sorts of weather, and put up with any old kind of grub, it’s a different story. And they tell me the food on this brig is as good as the average vessel.

“I have got a whole lot to tell when I get home, so I will not take the time to put it down on paper. But there is one thing I must write about. I may be making a mistake, but I don’t think so.

“It’s about that Jabez Garrison, who ran away from Philadelphia with some funds belonging to a benevolent association. I read the newspaper clippings Frank sent me, carefully, and also read what father wrote about him. I also kept the picture one of the papers printed of the rascal.

“Unless I am greatly mistaken, this Jabez Garrison is in Charleston. I was knocking around town yesterday, taking in the sights, when I stopped into a restaurant for a bite. Some men were there, and two at a table near me. Evidently they had just run across one another, and each seemed to be glad to see the other.

“These men talked of going to California, to a place called San Margella, wherever that is. The little chap was called Flecker, and he addressed the other man once as Garrison, and then again as Jabez. Both spoke of being in Philadelphia some time ago. The fellow called Flecker, or Becker, said he had been to Goshen, to the horse races, and out in Pennsylvania. The other man, Garrison, said he had been to Boston and down the Maine coast. Both acted as if they knew each other well and had been in some shady transactions together.

“I didn’t know what to do. If I had been sure this Garrison was the man you were after, I would have had him arrested, but both of the men went out, and in a crowd on the street I lost sight of them.

“Before they went away, however, they arranged to meet at a place called the Planters’ House, a week from to-day. Flecker said he had business to attend to in New York, and Garrison said he would lay low until his pal got back.

“If there is anything in this let me know. Shall I notify the police or what?”

“It must be Jabez Garrison!” cried Frank.

“I believe you are right, my son,” answered Mr. Hardy. “And if so, we ought to notify the police without delay.”

“And the most wonderful part of it is, that other man must be Gabe Flecker,” went on our hero.

“There may be some mistake,” put in Mrs. Hardy, timidly. “Thomas, you must not have an innocent man arrested.”

“You are right there, Margy. If I did that, it might cost me a pretty penny for damages. I wish I was well enough to go down to Charleston. I’d take the first train.”

“Let me go, father!” cried Frank, quickly. “It’s just the thing! Why didn’t I think of it before?”

“Are you sure you would know Jabez Garrison?”

“Positive, father. Haven’t I seen him a number of times, when he called at the store?”

“It is a long trip to Charleston, South Carolina,” came from Mrs. Hardy.

“I shouldn’t mind it in the least, mother. Besides, remember Mark is there. I can telegraph to him that I am coming on.”

“Yes, you might do that.”

“I’ll go down to the railroad station at once and see when I can get a train,” went on the young book agent, enthusiastically. “And I’ll send the telegram, too.”

The matter was talked over for a few minutes longer, and it was decided that our hero should really take the trip south. Without loss of time the telegram was prepared, and he hurried off to the station with it.

“Want to go to Charleston?” queried the ticket agent. “That’s rather a long trip, Frank.”

“Yes. How soon can I go?”

“You can make a connection at Philadelphia in two hours and forty minutes.”

“That will just suit me. Now let me know how much this telegram will cost.”

The telegram ran as follows:

“Am starting to-night for Charleston. Keep your eye on Garrison.

“Frank.”

The telegram paid for and sent, our hero raced back to the house. His mother had already brought forth a dress-suit case, and into this were packed such articles as he thought that he might need. Then he placed ample funds in his pocket, and kissed his mother and his sister good-by, and shook hands with his father and little Georgie.

“Now, be sure and keep out of danger,” said Mr. Hardy, on parting. “I’d rather have Garrison escape than that you should come to grief.”

“Yes, keep out of all danger,” pleaded his mother.

The train was coming into the station when Frank reached the ticket office once more. He purchased a ticket for Philadelphia, and was the last to get aboard. A moment more and Claster was left behind, and the long journey to South Carolina was begun.

Earlier in the year the journey would have made Frank feel strange, but knocking around as an agent had given him confidence in himself, and he felt quite at home as he settled back in his seat, and reviewed the situation.

“I hope that fellow does prove to be Jabez Garrison and that the other chap is Gabe Flecker,” he said to himself. “It will be killing two birds with one stone.”

It was growing dark when the Quaker City was reached. At the main railroad station on Broad Street, Frank obtained a ticket to Charleston, and also a berth in a sleeping car. He had barely time to get his supper at a nearby lunch room, when his train came in and he got aboard.

It was a misty night, so but little could be seen of the landscape. Frank sat up for a while to read, and then went to bed. He slept soundly, and got up about seven o’clock.

“We must be pretty well south by this time,” he thought. He was tremendously hungry, and after making his toilet, waited impatiently for the dining car to be taken on.

“First call for breakfast!” was the welcome cry a little later, and he made his way towards the dining car, which was at the rear end of the rather long train. To get to it he had to pass through two sleepers. Here some of the folks were not yet up, and he had to take care so as not to disturb them.

He was passing through the last sleeper, when a man emerged from behind the heavy curtains of a berth and bent over a hand-bag which rested in the aisle. The man’s back was toward Frank, but a single glance showed our hero that the individual was Gabe Flecker.