Old Andrew Sage uttered a choking cry and fell back on his chair, the letter he had been reading fluttering from his nerveless fingers and dropping upon his lap.

Startled, Mrs. Sage hastened toward her husband, and Fred sprang forward, crying:

“What is it—what is it, father? What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

No wonder he asked the question, for Mr. Sage’s face was white as chalk and he was gasping painfully, as if he found it difficult to breathe.

“Get some water quick, Fred,” urged Mrs. Sage, bending over her husband.

In a moment Fred had brought a glass of water, and Andrew Sage took a swallow or two, which seemed to revive him in a measure.

“The letter,” he whispered hoarsely, peering from beneath his spectacles—“where’s the letter?”

“Here it is, father.”

“Read it, boy—read it!” almost shouted the old man. “Read it aloud, that your mother may hear. It doesn’t seem possible! It’s Heaven sent at this moment!”

Wonderingly Fred picked up the typewritten missive and began to read it aloud:

“Dear Mr. Sage:

It is possible that you have not yet heard of the death of George Barrows, late cashier of the First National Bank of Rutledge. Mr. Barrows died yesterday, and, when he knew beyond doubt that there was no hope for him, he sent for me to come to his bedside and bring with me a stenographer. I complied, and in the privacy of the unfortunate man’s death chamber I listened to a most astounding confession which absolutely clears the name of your unfortunate dead son from the stigma of the crime for which he was convicted and sent to Sing Sing.”

At this point it was necessary for Fred to give his mother assistance and aid her into her own special rocking-chair. The moment she was seated, however, she begged him to go on with the letter.

“We have now in our possession (Fred read on), a full and complete typewritten confession of the crime, in which Barrows took the entire guilt upon his own shoulders. Before the man passed away, we had this typewritten document read to him in his presence and sworn to before a notary. The document is secure in our private safe, and it can be made public at any time you choose. Although, most unfortunately, this confession comes too late to do your misjudged son any good, it, nevertheless, must give you no small degree of satisfaction and happiness. If you desire, Mr. Gates will come to you personally with the confession and place it in your possession, it seeming unwise to us to trust in the slightest degree to the uncertainty of the mails.

Permit us, my dear sir, to offer you and your good wife our most heartfelt congratulations.

The excitement and joy produced by the reading of this astounding letter was unbounded. Amid tears and laughter the members of the little family embraced one another again and again, and finally, when a little calmness had come upon them, they knelt while Andrew Sage offered up a prayer of thanksgiving which came from the deepest chamber of his overflowing heart.

The moment the prayer was ended Fred leaped to his feet, kissed his mother, turned to his father and cried:

“You tell her, father. I’m going back into the village. I’m going to take this letter. You tell her the wonderful truth.”

The door slammed behind him, and away he went as fast as his legs could carry him. And thus it happened that the parents of the young man who had been falsely convicted of a crime were alone together when old Andrew Sage broke the marvelous tidings that Clarence Sage lived and was even then in that town.

Racing into the village in search of Piper, Fred was just in time to see Sheriff Pickle and a large body of men conducting toward the lockup two tattered and battered men, the associates of the wounded burglar, who had been captured only after a hot pursuit and a desperate fight.

The morning train had brought into Oakdale a slim, smooth-faced, quiet man in dark clothes, who had seemed greatly interested in the story of the attempted bank robbery. This man was also on hand when Pickle appeared with the prisoners, and with an air of authority he forced his way through the posse until he almost touched one of the captives, whom he surveyed with no small amount of satisfaction.

“Hello, Wilson,” he said. “You seem to have made a bad mess of this job.”

“Here! here!” cried the deputy sheriff, attempting to thrust the stranger back. “None of that! Keep away! What do you mean, men, by allowing anyone to approach the prisoners this fashion?”

“Keep your clothes on, my friend,” advised the stranger, giving Pickle a look in which disdain and amusement seemed mingled. “You’ll get your share of the reward for capturing Gentleman Jim, but I’ll take him back to York State.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Burke Sheldon, and I’m a detective.” Saying which, he flipped open his coat and displayed a badge that caused Mr. Pickle to gasp and touch his hat with a sudden show of great respect. “I was pretty close on this man’s heels. His pals are likewise wanted. See that you hold them tight and fast, officer, until I secure the needed requisition papers.”

Now Sleuth Piper had not been far away when the new captives arrived, and, crowding close in the throng that surrounded the posse, he heard the words of Detective Sheldon.

“Great scissors!” he muttered, aghast. “Is that Gentleman Jim?”

Fred Sage had followed Sleuth into the thick of the crowd, and he proceeded to lay a hand on the shoulder of the bewildered boy.

“That’s Gentleman Jim,” he palpitated exultantly. “Now you see what a blunder you made. Luckily, you promised to keep still until these men were caught.”

“It don’t seem possible!” muttered Piper sorrowfully. “I don’t see how I could have missed fire in my deduction.”

“Come with me a minute,” urged Fred. “I’ve got something to show you. I want to prove to you that my brother told the truth when he declared his innocence.”

Seemingly dazed and crushed, Sleuth permitted Fred to drag him from the crowd, and when he had read the letter from Jorlemon and Gates he was a very sick-looking chap indeed. For some moments he stood with his hands sunk deep in his pockets, his head drooping and his eyes fixed upon the ground. Presently, kicking weakly at some pebbles, he began to speak.

“I had that five hundred dollars pretty well spent,” he said. “I’d bought everything with it from a new pair of skates to an automobile. And now I don’t get a red cent!”

Then, as Fred was about to say something bitter and cutting, Piper braced up suddenly.

“Look here, old man,” he exclaimed, with an air of sincerity that surely seemed genuine, “for all of my confidence that I had that money as good as nailed, I’ve been feeling pretty rotten. I don’t suppose you believe me, but it’s a fact. I’ve been mighty sorry about the whole business since you talked to me a while ago at the bridge. Now, even though I’ve lost the five hundred, I’m feeling better. Say, Fred, you must be ready to blow up with joy. Just think of it! Your brother is alive, and he’s innocent. You have the proof. Old fellow, I congratulate you.”

“Thanks,” returned Fred, a bit coldly. “I’m glad you have the decency to say that much.”

“There’s only one hope left for me now,” said Sleuth. “The bank is out twenty thousand dollars in securities, and I believe I can put my hand on the thief. Anyhow, that will be a feather in my cap.”

At eleven o’clock that forenoon, while the officials of the bank were in consultation in the directors’ room, the door-man appeared and stated that there was a boy outside who insisted that he could tell who had robbed the institution.

“It’s one of the boys who helped catch the wounded burglar,” he said. “His name is Piper.”

“Admit him,” directed Urian Eliot.

Sleuth entered, bearing himself well. His eyes roved swiftly over the assembled officials until they rested upon Lucius Timmick, who sat huddled on a chair at one side of the great oak table.

“What is this you claim, my boy?” asked Mr. Eliot. “Do you pretend to say that you know who robbed the bank?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Sleuth positively, “I’m dead certain I can point out the man. He’s in this very room.”

While the electrified assemblage gasped over this statement, there came a sudden disturbance outside the door, which was violently flung open to admit Captain Quinn, who was threatening with his cane the door-man as the latter tried to collar him.

“Keep away, you swab!” roared the old sailor. “I tell you I’ve got business in here. Put your hands on me and I’ll mop the deck with you!”

“He—he would come in, gentlemen,” said the door-man, seeking to excuse himself for the interruption.

“You bet I would!” rasped Quinn. “And if I’d had a marlin-spike instead of this cane, I’d busted your head when you tried to put your dirty hooks on me! I guess I’ve got something that belongs aboard this here craft. I caught my monkey, Jocko, hiding it in my bunk. I reckon the little rat must have come in here through the busted winder and swiped the stuff, and I suppose in the excitement nobody saw him. Here it is.”

He pulled a thick package from his pocket and flung it down upon the table. Timmick, leaping from his chair, seized the package and took one look at it. Then he uttered a joyful shout.

“The missing securities!” he cried. “Here they are! That lets me out.”

It likewise let Sleuth Piper out. At any rate, in the midst of the confusion attendant upon the return of the securities Sleuth slipped through the open door and made all possible haste to leave the bank.

Some time later Rod Grant found Piper leaning on the railing of the bridge and gazing gloomily down at the icy waters of the river. Sleuth did not even look around when Rod slapped him on the shoulder, crying:

“What are you thinking about, you great detective—jumping into the drink? Going to commit suicide?”

“I will admit,” answered Piper in a doleful voice, “that such black thoughts have percolated through that empty chamber where up to the present date I’ve supposed my brains were located.”

“What’s the matter?” persisted Grant. “Why, you’re one of the heroes of the hour. You and Hooker caught one of the burglars——”

“After he had tumbled into a gully and bumped himself as helpless as a dead flounder,” returned Sleuth, with unspeakable self-scorn. “A great piece of work, that! Hook may feel chesty over it, but not I. Leave me, Rodney—leave me to my sorrow. Let me suffer alone and in silence.”

Thus the Great Oakdale Mystery was cleared up to the satisfaction of all, for in time even Sleuth Piper professed to be rejoiced, and his profession was accepted as genuine by Fred Sage, whose own great happiness would not permit him to hold hard feelings toward anyone.

Clarence Sage, cleared of any suspicion of complicity in the attempted robbery of the Oakdale bank, soon went to Rutledge, where Jorlemon and Gates took up his case, and, with the aid of the dead cashier’s confession, quickly obtained for Clarence the governor’s pardon.

Punctuation has been standardized. Minor spelling and typographic errors have been corrected silently, except as noted below.

On page 66, "reËntered" was changed to "reentered", as other uses of the word "enter" does not use the diacritic e.

On page 273, "ring" was changed to "bring". The original text was: Then we had to ring him into the business