“And then I opened the back door and found you standing there, Bill. Phew!” Dorothy ended with a sigh. “It’s almost more of an effort in the telling than it was in the doing!”

“I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t know it was true,” declared Terry solemnly.

“You’ve the great gift of stating things clearly, Terry,” remarked Bill Bolton. “In other words, why must you put in your foot every time you open your mouth? Dorothy, my girl, you said your piece nicely.”

“I’m not your girl, thank heaven! If I was at all interested, I’d certainly burst into tears. Please don’t try to be humorous—it’s painful, positively painful.”

“I guess I’d better begin my story,” George decided diplomatically. “Or somebody’s likely to start throwing things. Where do you want me to start?”

“Like this,” volunteered Terry, setting his empty coffee cup on its saucer. “‘I was born an orphan at the age of four, of poor but dishonest parents....’”

“‘And until the age of thirteen and three-quarters, could only walk sideways with my hair parted in the middle,’” came George’s quick follow up.

“He’s all right,” decreed Bill. “Let him speak his piece, gang—this is going to be good.”

“Of all the conceited nerve!” exclaimed Dorothy.

“Do shut up and give George a chance,” broke in Betty heatedly. “I want to hear about it—and this is a serious matter, I—”

“Now you’re the one who’s stopping him,” accused her chum. “For goodness’ sake, get going, George—we’ve got to drive to New Canaan some time tonight.”

“All right,” said George. “If you people don’t find it interesting, well, you’ve brought it on yourselves. Surprising as it may seem, I was born at the usual age at ‘Hilltop,’ that big whitehouse on the ridge, overlooking the other side of the reservation. Father, you know, was an inventor. He was always an extremely reticent man and I realized as I grew older that he was very much of a recluse. He never spoke to Mother and me about his inventions, but they must have brought him a good income. We kept up that big place and had plenty of servants, although we entertained very little. After I got through the nursery stage, I had a French governess and later a tutor. Mother and I were great pals. She must have been a busy woman, for she superintended the running of our model farm and dairy, but she was never too occupied with her duties but what she had time to romp and play with me. I know now that she must have led a very lonely life.

“My father spent nine-tenths of the time in his laboratory and workshop. He did not encourage friends or acquaintances and he never went anywhere with Mother. He had but one hobby, his work, and although I know he was very fond of us, the work came first. Even later, when I grew up, he never seemed like the fathers of other fellows I knew. It was his reticence and absolute absorption in those inventions of his that kept us practically strangers.

“Five years ago last spring, when I was twelve, Mother died. Her heart had never been strong—her going took the only person I really loved away from me.”

George was unable to go on for a moment, and Betty caught his hand under the table and held it. The tenderhearted little girl was very near to tears. George smiled manfully, then went on with his recital.

“Sorry,” he apologized for his show of feeling, “I never quite got over losing Mother. My governess had been replaced by a tutor a couple of years before this, but now Father decided I was to go to boarding school. So I was packed off to Lawrenceville, a homesick, lonely little kid if there ever was one. I’d never been thrown with boys of my own age before—I guess I was pretty much of a young prig—but as the poet says, ‘I soon learned different.’

“During the holidays I used mostly to come back to Hilltop. Father never made a kick if I brought fellows back with me. We had the run of the place, which he kept up just as it had been when Mother was alive. One thing was understood though: he must not be annoyed by my guests. There were saddle horses, for he rode regularly every morning before breakfast; cars to drive, and he also belonged to the club over at Bedford, although I don’t think he had ever seen the place. He gave me plenty of money to spend and always allowed me to accept invitations from other fellows to visit at their homes. Altogether I had a pretty good time. The only trouble was that Father never took any real interest in me. I was lucky enough to get my ‘L’ at football, but he never came down to Lawrenceville—not even to see a game.”

“I’ve got your number, now!” cried Terry, interrupting him. “You’re Stoker Conway! I thought I’d seen you before. Say, Bill, this guy is too modest. ‘Lucky to make his letter,’ I don’t think! Conway captained the Lawrenceville team last season. My cousin, Ed Durham (they call him Bull Durham down there) played left tackle. I went down with Dad and Uncle Harry last fall to see the Princeton freshman-Lawrenceville game.”

“I remember your telling about it,” said Dorothy. “Somebody, I think, made a sixty-yard run for a touchdown.”

“I’ll bet George did it,” piped up Betty.

“He certainly did! And let me tell you, Angelface, that your boy friend was the fastest halfback Lawrenceville or any other school has seen in years. All American stuff—that’s what he is. Hard luck you didn’t get to college this year, old man.”

“Can’t always have what we want,” remarked George philosophically.

“Who won the game?” asked Bill. “The one you saw, Terry?”

“Why, Lawrenceville, of course. Smeared ’em—outplayed those freshies from start to finish and did it with a lighter team. Thirty-three to nothing—think of it!”

Dorothy turned toward George.

“Stoker Conway—I like that name, ‘Stoker.’ How did you get it?”

George grinned. “I was a grubby little mutt—my first term at Lawrenceville. Somebody pasted the name on me, and it stuck.”

“Three celebrities at one table,” sighed Terry. “I knew we had two with us to-night—but a third! It’s just too much. Betty, you and I have just got to do something to make ourselves famous. There’s practically no hope for me, I admit, but you will probably become a movie queen, when you’re old enough—ash-gold hair and a baby doll face are all the rage on the screen!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” hit back Betty, ignoring the laughter caused by this left handed compliment. “How about the fame you won in the diamond smuggling case? You got plenty of newspaper publicity then.”

This sally turned the laugh on Terry, for as the three others knew, he had played anything but an heroic part in that episode.

But Terry was a jolly soul and his hearty laugh at his own expense joined with the others.

“Lay off, Betty!” he cried, “that was one below the belt. What do you bet I spot the motive in this mysterious case of Stoker’s?”

“See here, will you pipe down?” Bill expostulated. “All you will spot is your clothes. Keep quiet and quit waving your arms—you nearly upset my coffee. How can any of us learn anything unless you give Stoker a chance to get on with his story?”

Terry suppressed a retort and George hurried into the breach.

“Here goes on the second installment, then,” he said. “And it will probably interest you all to know I’m pretty near the end. Let’s see—where was I?”

“Last fall, at Lawrenceville,” prompted Dorothy. “You couldn’t get your father to come down there.”

George nodded. “Yes, that’s right. He never would come—not even when I graduated last June. I wrote him specially about it, but, well, he was having his own troubles about that time. Before I came home I passed my finals for Princeton. It was on the books that I’d go there this fall.

“Only I didn’t,” continued young Conway rather solemnly. “Father met me at the Bedford station in the flivver when I came back. On the way up here he told me that reverses in business had forced him to sell Hilltop. I knew, of course, that business conditions were pretty bad all over the country. But he looked ill and he had aged terribly since I’d seen him during the Easter holidays. I was much more worried about his physical condition, he seemed so played out, so feeble. But when we drove into the yard and I saw this down-at-the-heels old house—well, I certainly got another shock.”

“It must have been terribly hard,” sympathized Betty. “Especially after living all your life in the big place on the hill.”

“A bit of a comedown,” acknowledged George, “but I don’t want any of you to think I was ashamed of the place. If Father had to live here, it was good enough for me. I felt so sorry for him, though. He’d never been much of a mixer, as I said, but when he did talk to a fellow he was certainly interesting, full of pep and vitality—and a sure hog for work. Now all that was changed. He had no workshop or laboratory here. All day long and half the night he would sit reading in the library across the hall. If I spoke to him, he would answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to a question—but never volunteered anything on his own account. He seemed more like a man stunned—a man who realizes his life is a failure and no longer cares to go on.

“The woman down the road who cooks and keeps the house clean told me he had moved in here the early part of April and that during the time before I came back, he had been exactly as I found him.

“I wanted to get a job in the city. Even though I couldn’t get him to talk about his affairs, I knew he couldn’t have very much money, living in a ramshackle place like this. But though I wanted to get out and earn some money, I realized I must stay with him for the time being—and I’m glad I did. Father passed away in his sleep the night of July fourth. The doctor said it was his heart—like Mother.

“Well, I guess that’s about all of it. When the will was read I found that he’d left me everything. It amounted to two thousand dollars in cash, and this house and the sixteen acres that go with it. I stuck on here for the rest of the summer, trying to get the place in better shape; gave the house a couple of coats of paint, re-shingled parts of the roof, and have done as much as I could. I’m trying to sell the place, you know, and the agent told me I could never do it unless it was put in better condition. It looks pretty bad still, but I’ve worked like a dog.

“And I forgot to say, that Mr. Lewis bought Hilltop from father. He drops in here every once in a while for a chat. I know he’s got a reputation for being a skinflint, but I sort of like the old man, anyway.”

Dorothy, who had been absent-mindedly rolling bread pills on the table cloth, threw him a sharp glance.

“What happened tonight, before we came?” she asked.

“Why, I was just about to get my supper, when the bell rang. I opened the door and those two guys jumped me.”

“Not very subtle, were they? What do you suppose they were after?” Bill looked inquiringly at George.

“Well, this is the funny part of it all. They said they’d come for the letter Father had left for me to read after his death—”

“And you didn’t give it to them?”

“I’d never even heard of such a letter. I told them so.”

“And they wouldn’t believe you, eh?”

“They thought I was bluffing, of course.”

“But how on earth—did they say anything about the contents of the letter?” This question came from Dorothy.

“No. Simply that they wanted it—and they knew I must have it. What I can’t understand is how they could be so sure that a letter exists—even if I’d known about it, I wouldn’t have given it to them—but it’s all as clear as mud to me.”

“Has Mr. Lewis ever spoken to you about it?”

“Never.”

“Have you any reason to suppose that your Father might have left a letter for you—any idea that he might have had an important message to convey to you in that way?”

“Not the slightest. You see, I—”

“Look here,” broke in Terry. “Do you think it possible that old Lewis knew that your Father wrote you that letter—and believes that it’s in this house? He might have hired those thugs to get it from you, then when he found out they failed, he hopped over here himself and made that offer to buy your place, in order to get hold of it? There may be something valuable contained in it, and he wants to get it at any cost.”

“Too crude,” declared Dorothy with a shake of her head. “Perhaps he does want to buy it—but I doubt if he has anything to do with those holdup fellows. Mr. Lewis may be close but I’m sure he’s a clever man. The very fact that he came here so soon after the fracas clears his skirts of trying to hold up Stoker. As I say, he may want to get hold of the letter himself, but I’m dead sure he’s not the nigger in this particular woodpile.”

“Then who is?” Terry wanted to know.

“Tell us that, and you’ll win the fame you’re after,” chuckled Betty.

“Just a moment,” Bill was speaking again. “If old Lewis is as clever as you think he is, Dorothy, then the smart thing for him to do would be exactly what he has done!”

“How’s that?”

“Well, if he did hire those lads, he might figure that by coming over here, Stoker’d begin to believe he was the man behind the gun. But, he might have realized that on second thought, Stoker would discount the idea, for the very reason you have done so.”

“Gosh!” exploded Terry. “That’s a stumper, Bill. What are we going to do about it?”

“That’s the question—can we do anything?” Dorothy flicked a bread pill across the table.