"I am investigating the mysteries of Samson's Mill Settlement along lines of my own," said Harvey P. Banks. "My system of detection is not perfect yet, but it is good enough to go ahead with. So far I have not nailed anything down, but my little hammer is ready, I can tell you. I am full of highly colored suspicions, and there is one thing I am ready to swear to."

"What is that?" asked Reginald Baynes Rayton.

"Just this, Reginald. I'll eat my boots—and they cost me twelve plunks—if the burning of young Marsh's camp and the attack upon old Timothy Fletcher are not parts of the same game. I don't see any connection, mind you, but I'll swear it is so. I have two pieces of this picture puzzle on the table, and I am waiting for more. I know that these two pieces belong to the same picture."

"And what about the marked card?" inquired Rayton. "Is it part of your puzzle?"

"Certainly. It is the title of the picture. But I want more pieces, and just at this stage I need another game of poker. Can you get the same bunch of players together for to-night—and Dick Goodine?"

"I'll try. If we both set to work we can make the round this afternoon. Jim Harley is home, I know. Why do you want Dick? I give you my word, H. P., that you'll not find him one of the crooked pieces of your puzzle picture."

"Right you are, son! But he has sharp eyes, and as he is our friend it would not be polite to give a party and leave him out. He needn't play. Somebody must sit out, anyway, or we'll have too many for a good game, but he can talk, and look on, and help burn tobacco."

"Good! Then we must get Goodine, Nash, Wigmore, Marsh, Jim Harley, and Benjamin Samson."

"Never mind Samson. We don't need him. He is harmless and hopeless—and one too many. Also, he has promised Mrs. Samson never to stay out again after ten o'clock at night."

"All serene. We'd better start out with our invites right after grub. And as the roads are bad we may as well ride. You can have Buller and I'll take Bobs. Who do you want to call on?"

"I'll see Nash and Wigmore, and leave the others to you."

So, after the midday meal, they saddled the two farm horses and set out. Mr. Banks rode straight to Captain Wigmore's house. The air was still mild and the sky was clouded. About four inches of slushy snow lay upon the half-frozen ruts of the roads. The New Yorker hitched Buller in an open carriage shed, and hammered with the butt of his whip upon the front door. He waited patiently for nearly ten minutes, then hammered again. This time the summons brought old Timothy Fletcher, looking even more sullen than usual and with his gray-streaked hair standing up like the crest of some grotesque fowl. His eyes had the appearance of being both sharp and dull at the same time. They showed inner points, glinting like ice, and an outer, blinking film like the shadow of recent sleep. For several seconds he stood with the door no more than six inches ajar, staring and blinking at the caller, his wind-tanned brow forbidding, but his lower face as expressionless as a panel of the door.

"Who d'ye want, sir?" he inquired at last, in a grudging voice.

"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Banks. "I really thought you were asleep, Timothy. I want to speak to the captain for a few minutes. Is he at home?"

Timothy Fletcher lowered his staring eyes for an instant, then raised them again, blinking owlishly. The glint in their depths brightened, and took on sharper edges.

"What d'ye want to speak to him about?" he asked suspiciously.

"I'll tell that to your master," replied Mr. Banks blandly.

"He ain't at home."

"Not at home? Guess again, my good man."

"I tell ye, he ain't at home!"

"Not so fast," said the sportsman coolly, and with astonishing swiftness he advanced his heavily booted right foot, and thrust it across the threshold. The door nipped it instantly.

"It is not polite to slam doors in the faces of your master's friends," he said.

Then he threw all his weight against the door, flinging it wide open and hurling Timothy Fletcher against the wall.

"I don't like your manners," he said. "I intend to keep my eye on you. I give you fair warning, Timothy Fletcher."

The old fellow stood against the wall, breathing heavily, but in no wise abashed. He grinned sardonically.

"Warning?" he gasped. "Ye warn me! Chuck it!"

Mr. Banks halted and gazed at him, noting the narrow, heaving chest and gray face.

"I hope I have not hurt you. I opened the door a trifle more violently than I intended," he said.

Fletcher did not answer. Banks glanced up the stairs and beheld Captain Wigmore standing at the top and smiling down at him. He turned sharply to the servant. "There!" he whispered. "Just as I suspected! You were lying."

The old fellow twisted his gray face savagely. That was his only answer.

Timothy retired to the back of the house as Captain Wigmore descended the stairs. The captain was in fine spirits. He clasped his visitor's hand and patted his shoulder.

"Come into my den," he cried. "What'll you have? Tea, whisky, sherry? Give it a name, my boy."

"A drop of Scotch, if you have it handy," replied the caller. "But I came over just for a moment, captain, to see if you can join us to-night in a little game of poker."

"Delighted! Nothing I'd like better. We've been dull as ditch water lately," answered the captain, as he placed a glass and decanter before his visitor. "Just a moment," he added. "There is no water—and there is no bell in this room. Timothy has a strong objection to bells."

Wigmore left the room, returning in a minute with a jug of water. He closed the door behind him.

"Same crowd, I suppose," he said, "and the cards cut at eight o'clock."

Banks nodded, and sipped his whisky and water. "Yes, about eight," he answered. "We don't keep city hours."

"Do you expect the marked card to turn up again?" asked Captain Wigmore, fixing him with a keen glance.

The New Yorker looked slightly disconcerted, but only for a fraction of a second.

"Yes, I am hoping so," he admitted. "I want to see those marks. Do you think there is any chance of the thing working to-night?"

"That is just what I want to know," returned the captain. "If the devil is at the bottom of that trick, as Jim Harley would have us all believe, I see no reason why he should neglect us to-night. But, seriously, I am convinced that we might play a thousand games and never see those two red crosses on the face of a card again. It was chance, of course, and that the Harleys should have that family tradition all ready was a still more remarkable chance."

Mr. Banks nodded. "We'll look for you about eight o'clock," he said, and then, very swiftly for a man of his weight, he sprang from his chair and yanked open the door. There, with his feet at the very threshold, stood Timothy Fletcher. Banks turned to the captain with a gesture that drew the old man's attention to the old servant's position.

"I'd keep my eye on this man, if I were you," he said. "I have caught him both at lying and eavesdropping to-day."

"Timothy, what the devil do you mean by such behavior?" cried Wigmore furiously.

Timothy leered, turned, and walked slowly away.

Mr. Banks mounted his horse and set out for Doctor Nash's at a bone-wrenching trot.

"I'll bet a dollar old Fletcher is at the bottom of the whole business," he murmured. "I wonder where Wigmore picked him up. He looks like something lifted from the bottom of the sea." During the ride to the doctor's, and throughout the homeward journey, his mind was busy with Timothy Fletcher. When he reached home he told something of his new suspicion to Rayton.

"How could that poor old chap have got at that card?" asked Rayton. "He has never been inside my sitting room in his life."

"That is just what you think, Reginald," replied Mr. Banks. "But we'll soon know all about it, you take my word. I am on a hot scent!"

Jim Harley was the first of the company to arrive. He looked worried, but said nothing about his anxieties. Next came young Marsh, with his right arm in a sling and a swagger in his stride. Dick Goodine and Captain Wigmore appeared together, having met at the gate. The captain wore a cutaway coat, a fancy waistcoat, and a white silk cravat fastened with a pearl pin. His whiskers were combed and parted to a wish, his gray hair was slick as the floor of a roller-skating rink, and his smiling lips disclosed his flashing "store" teeth. He was much merrier and smarter than on the night of the last game.

Doctor Nash was still to come.

"We'll give him fifteen minutes' grace," said Rayton, "and if he does not turn up by then we'll sit in to the game without him."

"He is trying to be fashionable," said Captain Wigmore. "Poor fellow!"

Banks produced his cigars and cigarettes. David Marsh drew his chair close up to Dick Goodine's and began to talk in guarded tones.

"D'ye know, Dick, I'm mighty upset," he whispered. "I'd feel easier if I knew you'd done me dirt than the way I do now. I can stand up to a man—but this here mysterious business ain't the kind o' thing nobody can stand up to."

"Scart?" inquired Dick.

"No, I ain't scart. Just oneasy. D'ye reckon them little crosses will turn up to-night?"

"Guess not. That sort o' thing don't happen more'n once."

"Will you swear you didn't cut my canoe pole, Dick—so help you God!"

"So help me God, I didn't cut it nor harm it in any way. And I don't know who did."

"I believe you—now. I guess there's something worse nor you on my trail. If that marked card turns up to-night, and comes to me, I'll git out o' the country. That'll be the cheapest thing to do, I guess."

"I wouldn't if I was you. I'd just lay low and keep my eyes skinned."

Then Doctor Nash arrived, and all pulled their chairs to the table except Dick Goodine. They drew for cards and Mr. Banks produced an ace. The pack was swiftly shuffled, cut, and dealt. David Marsh put his left hand on the table, touched his cards, hesitated for a moment, and then sprang to his feet. His face was twisted with a foolish grin.

"I guess not!" he exclaimed. "It ain't good enough for me."

The captain, having settled down to business, had lost his sweet and playful temper.

"What's that?" he snapped. "Not good enough! What's not good enough?"

"The risk ain't good enough," replied Marsh, sullenly and yet with an attempt at lightness. "I don't like them red crosses. I've had enough of 'em, whoever works 'em—man or devil—he's cured me!"

"Cured you?" queried Jim Harley, glancing up from his hand.

"Yes, cured me!" cried Marsh forcibly, "and I don't care who knows it. I ain't 'shamed to say it, neither. I've broke my arm, lost a canoe, and a camp—and a good job! Ain't that enough? I quit! I quit right now."

"Do you mean you'll quit playing cards?" asked Rayton.

"I guess you know what I mean," retorted David. "And I guess Jim Harley knows, too."

"Oh, shut up!" snapped old Wigmore. "We came here to play poker, not to listen to you. Who sits in and takes this heroic gentleman's place? Goodine, it's up to you."

"Don't care if I do," said the trapper; so he and David Marsh changed seats.

The game went on for half an hour without any fuss. Doctor Nash was winning. Then, after a throwdown, Rayton gathered up the old pack and replaced them with a new.

"You are growing extravagant, Reginald," said the captain, glancing at him keenly.

Rayton laughed.

"I hear Turk scratching," he said. "Excuse me for half a minute."

He went into the kitchen, and threw the old pack of cards into the stove. He returned immediately to his place at the table and the game went on. Nash's pile of blue chips dwindled steadily and Dick Goodine began to stack up the red, white, and blue. Mr. Banks seemed to be playing a slack game. Captain Wigmore played keenly and snapped at every one. Rayton left his chair for a few seconds and placed glasses, a decanter, and cold water on the table.

"Help yourselves," he said. "We'll have coffee, and something to eat, later."

Captain Wigmore waved the liquor aside, but the others charged their glasses. Goodine displayed three aces and scooped in a jack pot that had stood secure and accumulating for several rounds.

"Hah, Davy, you dropped out too soon," said Nash. "You got cold feet at the wrong time of day. Don't you wish, now, that you'd stayed in the game?"

"Wouldn't risk it, doc—not even for a ten-dollar pot," replied Marsh.

"Bah!" exclaimed old Wigmore, as he cut the deck for Jim Harley. Jim dealt. Rayton looked steadily at his five cards, then slipped them together between thumb and finger, and tilted his chair well back from the table.

"You look as if you'd been given something pretty good," said Captain Wigmore.

"Not half bad," answered the Englishman quietly.

"On the side," said Nash, "I bet you a dollar, even, that I hold the best hand—pat."

Rayton shook his head. "Not this time, Nash, if you don't mind," he replied quietly. "I want to take cards."

"That's easily managed," persisted the doctor. "I want cards, too; but we can lay our discards aside and show them later. Come, be a sport! Thought all Englishmen were sports."

Rayton hesitated, flushing.

"Right-o!" he said. "But I'll not be what you call a sport on one dollar! Twenty-five is my bet, Nash—even money. Come! How does that suit you?"

"It doesn't suit me at all—thanks just the same," returned the doctor sullenly.

"Perhaps you'll leave the English sporting instinct alone, after this," said Mr. Banks.

"For Heaven's sake, get on with the game!" cried old Wigmore.

All "came in" and took cards. Rayton asked for two, and though he did not bet, he kept the five cards in his hand. Wigmore took the money, this time.

"Supper," said the Englishman quickly, and gathered up all the cards with swift hands, his own included. He entered the kitchen quickly, and they heard him clattering about the stove.

After supper the game went on, with another fresh pack of cards. They had been playing for about a quarter of an hour when Captain Wigmore suddenly began to chuckle.

"What's the matter with you? Have you laid an egg?" asked Nash insolently.

For a second the old man's face was twisted with white-hot rage and his eyes fairly flamed upon the doctor. He trembled—then smiled calmly.

"Some one has, evidently," he said, and spread his five cards face-up upon the table. He pointed at the ace of clubs with a lean finger. It was marked with two little red crosses!

"You!" cried Jim Harley, staring incredulously from the card to the old man and back again to the card.

Nash and David Marsh began to laugh uproariously. Goodine and Rayton looked bewildered, and Banks scratched his head reflectively.

"That beats the band!" cried Nash, at last. "Jim, the spook who works that family curse of yours must be going daffy. Good for you, captain! There's life in the old dog yet! No wonder you are dressed up so stylish."

He leaned halfway across the table, guffawing in the old man's face.

Wigmore's hands darted forward. One gripped Nash's necktie, and the other darted into an inner pocket of his coat.

"Here! Drop it, you old devil!" cried the doctor.

Captain Wigmore sat back in his chair, laughing softly. He held something in his hand—something that they had all seen him draw from Nash's pocket.

"Gentlemen," he said, "look at this. It is another card marked with the two red crosses. I took it from the pocket of our worthy young pill roller. Who'd ever have thought that he was the mysterious indicator of trouble—the warning of the gods—the instrument of fate?"

"You darned old fool!" cried Nash, "that is the same card that was dealt to Davy Marsh last time we played. You know it as well as I do, you old ape! Look at it. Look at the back of it. Here, Rayton, you take a look at it."

"It is the same old card," said Rayton. "Nash took it away with him that night."

"Ah! My mistake," said the captain mildly.

When the company left the house, Rayton called Jim Harley back.

"I can't make it out," he said, looking from Banks to Harley, "but I want you chaps to know that two marked cards were dealt to me before supper. I kept quiet and changed the pack each time."

Harley clutched the Englishman's shoulder.

"You!" he exclaimed, with colorless lips. "Twice! Is that true?"

"Yes, it's true; but it is nonsense, of course," returned the Englishman.

"Don't worry, Jim," said Mr. Banks calmly. "The thing is all a fake—and I mean to catch the faker before I leave Samson's Mill Settlement!"