Half an hour after my arrival in the city, I was seated in the private office of our Chief, with Mrs. Ballou opposite me.

I had telegraphed from a way station, so that no time might be lost. I found the Chief and the lady awaiting me; and, at the first, he had signified his wish that I should listen to her story, and then give him my version of it.

"She seems ill at ease with me," he said, "and frankly told me that she preferred to make her statement to you. Go ahead, Bathurst; above all we must retain her confidence."

Mrs. Ballou looked careworn, and seemed more nervous than I had supposed it in her nature to be.

She looked relieved at sight of me, and, as soon as we were alone, plunged at once into her story, as if anxious to get it over, and hear what I might have to say.

This is what she told me in her own plain, concise, and very sensible language, interrupted now and then by my brief questions, and her occasional moments of silence, while I transferred something to my note-book.

"I presume you have wanted to know what I did with that letter I took," she began, smiling a little, probably in recollection of her adroit theft. "I will tell you why I took it. When you first showed it to me, the printed letters had a sort of familiar look, but I could not think where I had seen them. During the night it seemed to come to me, and I got up and went into the parlor." Here she hesitated for a moment, and then went on hurriedly: "Grace—my girl, you know—has a large autograph album; she brought it home when she came from the seminary, and everybody she meets that can scratch with a pen, must write in it. I found this precious album, and in it I found—this."

She took from her pocket-book a folded paper and put it in my hand. It was a leaf torn from an album, and it contained a sentimental couplet, printed in large, bold letters.

I looked at the bit of paper, and then muttering an excuse, went hurriedly to the outer office. In a moment I was back; holding in my hand the printed letter of warning, which I had confided to the care of my Chief.

I sat down opposite Mrs. Ballou with the two documents before me, and scrutinized them carefully.

They were the same. The letter of warning was penciled, and bore evidence of having been hastily done; the album lines were in ink carefully executed and elaborately finished, but the lettering was the same. Making allowances for the shading, the flourishes, and the extra precision of the one, and looking simply at the formation of the letters, the height, width, curves, and spacing of both, and the resemblance was too strong to pass for a mere coincidence.

I studied the two papers thoughtfully for a few moments, then looked at Mrs. Ballou.

"You should have told me of this at once," I began; but she threw up her hand impatiently.

"Wait," she said, with almost her ordinary brusqueness, seeming to lose her nervousness as she became absorbed in the task of convincing me that she thoroughly understood herself. "There was no time to compare the writing that night. I had not decided what to do, and I was not sure then that they were the same. I left the album, just as I found it, and went out and harnessed the horses. While I was helping you with your coat, I managed to get the letter."

"You were certainly very adroit," I said. "Even now I can recall no suspicious movements of yours."

"I made none," she retorted. "I saw where you put the letter, and it was easy to get it while helping you."

She paused a moment, then went on:

"When I went home, after driving you to the station, everybody was asleep. I knew they would be; I always have to wake them all, from Fred to the hired girl. I waked them as usual that morning, told them that I had discharged you for impertinence, and for abusing the horses, and that settled the matter. In the afternoon the girls went over to Morton's; it's only a mile across the fields, and a clear path. I made up my mind that I'd have them safe back again before dark, and I know where I could get a good man to take your place; he was high-priced, but I knew he was to be trusted, and I had made up my mind to keep a close eye on the girls, and to send some one with them wherever they went. After they were gone, I took the album to my room, locked Fred out, and compared the letter with the album verse. I thought the writing was the same."

She hesitated a moment, brushed her handkerchief across her lips, and then went on.

"I didn't know what to do, nor what to think—my first thought was to send for you, then I became frightened. I did not know what you might trace out, with this clue, and I did not know how it might affect my daughter. Grace is lively, fond of all kinds of gayety, especially of dancing. She is always surrounded with beaux, always has half a dozen intimate girl friends on hand, and is constantly on the go. There are so many young people about Groveland that picnics, neighborhood dances, croquet parties, buggy rides, etc., are plenty; and then, Grace often has visitors from Amora."

"Where is Amora?" I interrupted.

"It is about twenty-five miles from Groveland. Grace went to school at Amora."

I made an entry in my note-book, and then asked:

"Is there a seminary in Amora?"

"Yes."

"How long since your daughter left Amora, Mrs. Ballou?"

"She was there during the Winter term."

"Yes. Did Nellie Ewing ever attend school at Amora?"

"Yes."

"When?"

Mrs. Ballou moved uneasily.

"Nellie and Grace were room-mates last Winter," she replied.

"And Mamie Rutger? Was she there, too?"

"She began the Winter term, but was expelled."

"Expelled! For what?"

"For sauciness and disobedience. Mamie was a spoiled child, and not fond of study."

I wrote rapidly in my note-book, and mentally anathematized myself, and my employers in the Ewing-Rutger case. Why had I not learned before that Nellie Ewing and Mamie Rutger were together at Amora? Why had their two fathers neglected to give me so important a piece of information?

Evidently they had not thought of this fact in connection with the disappearance of the two girls, or the fact that Mamie was expelled from the school may have kept Farmer Rutger silent.

I closed my note-book and asked:

"Did any other young people from Groveland attend the Amora school? Try and be accurate, Mrs. Ballou."

"Not last Winter," she replied; "at least, no other girls. Johnny La Porte was there."

"Who is Johnny La Porte?"

"His father is one of our wealthiest farmers. Johnny is an only son. He is a good-looking boy, and a great favorite among the young people."

"Do you know his age?"

"Not precisely; he is not more than twenty or twenty-one."

"Where is Johnny La Porte at present?"

"At home, on his father's farm."

"Now, Mrs. Ballou, tell me who is Miss Amy Holmes?"

She started and flushed.

"Another school friend," she replied, in a tone which said plainly, "the bottom is reached at last."

Evidently she expected some comment, but I only said:

"One more, Mrs. Ballou, why have you held back this bit of paper until now?"

"I am coming to that," she retorted, "when you have done with your questions."

"I have finished. Proceed now."

Once more she began:

"I was worried and anxious about the papers, but, on second thought, I determined to know something more before I saw or wrote you. I did not think it best to ask Grace any questions; she is an odd child, and very quick to suspect anything unusual, and it would be an unusual thing for me to seem interested in the autographs. It was two days before I found out who wrote the lines in the album. I complained of headache that day, and Grace took my share of the work herself. Amy was in the parlor reading a novel. I went in and talked with her a while, then I began to turn over the leaves of the album. When I came to the printed lines, I praised their smoothness, and then I carelessly asked Amy if she knew what the initials A. B. stood for. She looked up at me quickly, glanced at the album, hesitated a moment as if thinking, and then said: 'Oh, that's Professor Bartlett's printing, I think, his first name is Asa. He is an admirable penman.'

"I don't think Amy remembered the lines, or she would not have said that. I don't think Professor Bartlett would begin an album verse: 'I drink to the eyes of my schoolmate, Grace.' I knew that Amy had told a falsehood, and I watched her. She took the first opportunity, when she thought I did not see her, to whisper something to Grace. I saw that Grace looked annoyed, but Amy laughed, and the two seemed to agree upon something.

"I thought I would come to the city the next day, but in the morning my boy was very sick; he was sick for more than two weeks, and I had no time to think of anything else. Amy helped Grace, and was so kind and useful that I almost forgave her for telling me a fib. I had sent your letter back during Fred's illness, and, when he began to mend, I thought the matter over and over. I knew it would be useless to question Grace, and I did not know what harm or scandal I might bring upon my own daughter by bringing the matter to your notice. I tried to convince myself that the similarity of the printing was accidental, and, as I had not the letter to compare with the album, it was easier to believe so. I concluded to wait, but became very watchful.

"One night Fred brought in the mail; there was a letter for Amy; she opened it and began to read, then she uttered a quick word, and looked much pleased. I saw an anxious look on my girl's face and caught a glance that passed between them. By-and-by they both went up-stairs, and in a few minutes I followed, and listened at the door of their room.

"Amy was reading her letter to Grace. I could tell that by the hum of her voice, but I could not catch a word, until Grace exclaimed, sharply, 'What! the 17th?' 'Yes, the 17th, hush,' Amy answered, and then went on with her reading. I could not catch a single word more, so I went back down-stairs. It was then about the ninth of the month, and I thought it might be as well to keep my eyes open on the 17th, though it might have meant last month, or any other month, for all I could guess. After that Amy seemed in better spirits than usual, and Grace was gay and nervous by turns. On the 17th the girls stayed in their room, as usual—that was four days ago."

She paused a moment, during which my eyes never left her face; she sighed heavily, and resumed:

"I felt fidgety all day, as if something was going to happen. I expected to see the girls preparing for company, or to go somewhere, but they did no such thing. When evening came, they went to their room earlier than usual, but I sat up later than I often do. It was almost eleven o'clock when I went up-stairs, and then I could not sleep. I stopped and listened again at the door of the girls' room, but could hear nothing. They might both have been asleep.

"It was very warm, and I threw open my shutters, and sat down by the window, thinking that I was not sleepy, and, of course, I fell asleep. All at once something awoke me. I started and listened; in a moment I heard it again; it was the snort of a horse. There was no moon, and the shrubbery and trees made the front yard, from the gate to the house, very dark. As I heard no wheels nor hoofs, of course I knew that the horse was standing still, and the sound came from the front. I sat quite still and listened hard. By-and-by I heard something else. This time it was a faint rustling among the bushes below—it was not enough to have aroused even a light sleeper, but I was wide awake, and all ears. 'Somebody is creeping through my rose bushes,' I said to myself, then tip-toed to my bureau, got out the pistol you gave me, and slipped out, and down-stairs, as still as a mouse.

"The girls slept in a room over the parlor, and their windows faced west and south; mine faced north and west, so you see I had no view, from my bed-room, of the south windows of their room. The croquet ground was on the south side of the house, and there was a bit of vacant lawn in front of the parlor, also. The windows below were all closed and so I could not hear the rustling any more.

"I sat down by one of the parlor windows and peeped out. Presently I saw something come out from among the bushes; it was a man; and he came into the open space carrying a ladder. Then I knew what the rustling meant. He had taken the ladder from the big harvest-apple tree in front, where the girls had put it that afternoon, and was bringing it toward the house.

"The man stopped opposite the south windows of the girls' room, and began to raise the ladder. Then I knew what to do. I slipped the pistol into my pocket, went out through the dining-room, unbolted the back door as quietly as I could, crept softly to the south corner of the house, and peeped around. The ladder was already up, and somebody was climbing out of the window, while the man steadied the ladder. It was one of the girls, but I could not tell which, so I waited. When she stood upon the ground not ten feet away from me, I knew by her height that it was Grace, and Amy had started down before Grace was off the ladder. Just then the man stepped back, so that I had a fair chance at him. I took aim as well as I could, and fired.

"The man yelled. Grace screamed and tumbled over on the grass, just as I expected her to. Amy Holmes jumped from the ladder, ran to the man, and said, "quick! come!" I fired again, and Grace raised herself suddenly with such a moan that I thought in my haste I had hit her.

"I threw down the pistol, ran and picked her up as if she were a baby, and took her around to the back door. By the time I found out that she was not hurt, and had got back to the ladder, the man and Amy were gone, and I heard a buggy going down the road at a furious rate."

She paused and sighed deeply, looked at me for a moment, and then, as I made no effort to break the silence, she resumed:

"It's not a pleasant story for a mother to tell concerning her own daughter, but when I think of Nellie Ewing I know that it might accidentally have been worse.

"I commanded Grace to tell me the whole truth. She cried, and declared that she was under oath not to tell. After a little she grew calmer, and then told me that she meant no harm. Amy had a lover who was not a favorite with her guardian, who lives somewhere South. Amy was about to run away and be married, and Grace was to accompany her as a witness. They both expected to be safely back before daylight. Of course I did not believe this, and I told her so. Her actions after that made me wish that I had not disputed her story. I have used every argument, and I am convinced that nothing more can be got out of Grace. She is terribly frightened and nervous, but she is stubborn as death. Whatever the truth is, she is afraid to tell it."

"And Miss Holmes; what more of her?"

"Nothing more; she went away in the buggy with the others."

"The others?"

"Yes; I am sure there were two, for I found the place where the buggy stood waiting. It was not at the gate, but further south. There was a ditch between the wheel marks and the fence, and nothing to tie to. Some one must have been holding the horses."

"And this is all you know about the business?"

"Yes, everything."

"Where is your daughter now?"

"At home, under lock and key, with a trusty hired man to stand guard over her and the house until I get back, and with Freddy and the hired girl for company."

"Does she know why you came to the city?"

"Not she. I told her I was coming to make arrangements for putting her to school at a convent, and I intend to do it, too."

Making no comment on this bit of maternal discipline, I again had recourse to my note-book.

"You are fixed in your desire not to have your daughter further interviewed?" I asked, presently.

"I am," she replied. "I don't think it would do any good, and she is not fit to endure any more excitement. I expect to find her sick in bed when I get home."

"Do you think your shot injured the man?"

"I know it did," emphatically. "I aimed at his legs, intending to hit them, and I did it. He never gave such a screech as that from sheer fright; there was pain in it. Amy must have helped him to the carriage."

"Is this escapade known among your neighbors?"

"No. I hushed it up at home, giving my girl and hired man a different story to believe. I could not get away by the morning train from Sharon, and so started the next evening. I left them all at home with Grace, and drove alone to Sharon, leaving my horse at the stable there."

"You certainly acted very wisely, although I regret the delay. Miss Holmes and her two cavaliers have now nearly four days the start of us. Did you notice the size of the man at the ladder?"

"Yes; he was not a large man, if anything a trifle below the medium height."

"You think, then, that Miss Holmes made a willful effort to deceive you, when she told you that the album verse was written by Professor Bartlett? By-the-by, is there a Professor Asa Bartlett at Amora?"

"Yes, he is the Principal. If you could see him, you would never accuse him of having written a silly verse like that. I am sure Amy meant to deceive me, and I am sure that she posted Grace about it, in case I should ask her."

"But you did not ask her?"

"No. One does not care to make one's own child tell an unnecessary lie. Grace would have stood by Amy, no doubt."

It was growing late in the afternoon. There was much to do, much to think over, and no time to lose. I was not yet prepared to give Mrs. Ballou the benefit of my opinion, as regarded her daughter's escapade, so I arranged for a meeting in the evening, promising to have my plans decided upon and ready to lay before her at that time.

She wished, if possible, to return home on the following day, and I told her that I thought it not only possible, but advisable that she should do so.

Then I called a carriage, saw her safely ensconced therein, en route for her hotel, and returned to my Chief.

I had now two interests. I much desired to arrive at the bottom of the Groveland mystery, and thought, with the information now in hand, that this was quite possible; and I also desired to remain at my post among the Traftonites. I at once decided upon my course. I would tell my Chief Mrs. Ballou's story, and then I would give him a brief history of our sojourn in Trafton and its motive. After that, we would decide how to act.

There was no pause for rest or food, or thought, until I had given my Chief a history of Mrs. Ballou's vigil and excellent pistol exploit, and followed this up by the story of my Trafton experience.

His first comment, after he had listened for an hour most attentively, brought from my lips a sigh of relief; it was just what I longed to hear.

"Well, you need have no fear so far as this office is concerned. 'Squire Brookhouse has not called for its services."