The city of Grandon was only a few miles distant from Ridgewood and connected by rail. It was a small city of mushroom growth, as is characteristic of many Western towns.

It was here that the engineer August Bordine resided.

He was well to-do, supporting a widowed mother, giving her a comfortable home from his earnings.

About a week after the tragedy at Ridgewood as Bordine was walking down the street his eyes was attracted by a poster on a dead wall near.

He paused and read:

$5,000 REWARD.

The above reward will be given for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person who murdered Victoria Vane at her home in Ridgewood on the 10th of June.

"BUCK BRADY, Sheriff."

Other pedestrians paused, attracted as Bordine had been by the flaming poster.

"By gosh! that ought to fetch 'im," uttered a queer-looking Yankee, who had been studying the poster for some minutes.

Bordine regarded the speaker now for the first time.

He was lean and thin, with swallow-tailed coat, tall hat, battered and worn, a huge necktie and heavy boots—a veritable Yankee from way back the young engineer thought.

"They consider the girl pretty valuable," said another.

"That reward ought to fetch the villain," uttered Bordine. "I have a notion to try for it myself."

"S'pose you dew!"

The Yankee regarded him curiously.

"It is a tempting reward."

At this moment a carriage halted, and a bearded face peered out. Beside it was a pale, pretty woman's countenance. Evidently they had been attracted by the same thing that caused pedestrians to stop and stare.

"Drive on."

It was the woman in a pleading tone.

"But see, my dear, here's something worth looking at. A big reward for the arrest of the murderer of poor Miss Vane. Did you notice it?"

"It's in all the papers. Do drive on, Andrew," pleaded the woman's voice again.

Then, seeing people gazing at them, she dropped her veil. Her companion, a heavily bearded man, seemed intent on gazing at the flaming reward poster.

"It's worth the trial," he muttered.

Then he lifted the reins, spoke to his horse, and was soon moving away.

"Who was it?"

This from the Yankee, who seemed unusually excited as he gazed after the moving carriage.

"It's Mr. Brown, I believe," answered Bordine. The gentleman had been but a short time in town, but as he spent money freely and drove a fast horse he had attracted attention, and the young engineer had heard his name mentioned freely by some of his friends.

"Brown?"

"From Denver."

"Is that so? Where does he hang out?"

"At the 'Golden Lion'."

Without speaking again the inquisitive Yankee hurried on. In a little time he sighted the carriage and its occupants. He followed at a respectful distance, and saw it halt in front of a small house in the suburbs.

The lady alighted.

"Now, Andrew—"

"Curse you! Why will you speak that name?" the man flung back, savagely. "Iris, you have been trouble enough to me, and I won't be dogged in this way."

"Dogged! Has not a wife a right to be with her husband?"

"Confound it, no! I will call on you to-night and have this matter settled—settled forever."

Then he wheeled his carriage and drove away. The woman, with veil down, remained standing at the gate for some time, watching the retreating carriage.

And the Yankee leaned against the trunk of a tree near, seemingly intent on watching a flock of sparrows near the gutter.

"It looks suspicious, anyhow," muttered the Yankee. "It would be strange enough if I should run upon Andrew Barkswell here—funny, indeed."

And the woman?

Her voice was suffused with tears as she murmured:

"Andrew, Andrew, how can you treat me so? I have sold my soul for your love, and now—now this is my reward! I feel that I shall die, yes, die, or—or go mad!"

She clasped her hands tightly, breathed hoarsely for a moment, then turned and reeled to the house. With a key she opened the door and entered; which fact convinced the Yankee that she was alone.

Slowly he shuffled down the walk and paused in front of the house.

It looked silent and gloomy enough, as though no human soul occupied the interior.

He was soon rapping at the front door. The woman he had seen enter answered.

Pushing his way in without ceremony, our Yankee friend seated himself, and removing his hat, began smoothing the crown with a greasy elbow.

"Well, sir," demanded the woman, "who are you, and what do you wish?"

"Specs, marm, specs," uttered the Yankee, grinning from ear to ear.

"Sir!"

"I've got 'em, a heap of the best specs sold in America."

Then the Yankee drew from an inner pocket a leather case, which he proceeded to open, displaying a lot of cheap spectacles.

"I kin fit old or young, rich or poor, fat or lean, I'm a ginooine malefactor o' the human race, a honor to my profession; in fact I'm an eye doctor, and if you've weak eyes, as I see you hav', let me—"

"Sir, it is useless; I want none of your wares," said the woman, tartly.

"Yeou look sick, madam."

"I want none of your wares I tell you."

"Law now—"

"Please go."

"But see here, mebbe yeou don't know who I be. I'm Jathom Green, from
Goose Creek, down ter Vermount."

"But this is nothing to me I tell you."

The Yankee glanced carelessly, yet keenly, about the room. He noticed everything without seeming to do so. Folding up his spectacles, he finally returned them to his pocket and retired.

Just at dusk a man ran up the steps and opened the front door.

He did not resemble the man we have seen in the carriage some time before. He followed the woman at once to a back room, flung his elegantly clad frame into a chair, and gazed fixedly at the trim figure of the woman before him.

Producing a cigar he lit it before uttering a word.

A second figure stole up the steps and opened the door cautiously, tiptoeing down a narrow hall to the room occupied by the man and woman. The last comer was the Yankee, who had not been far from the vicinity during the afternoon.

Kneeling the Yankee peeped through the keyhole. He started then and came near uttering an exclamation.

"Now, sir, what have you to say regarding your conduct," demanded the woman, who, with hat and veil removed, was rather a pretty lady of medium size, although her white face and hollow eyes betokened much suffering.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Oh, And—"

"Stop! Utter that name here and I will brain you," hissed the man, suddenly, furiously, half rising to his feet.

"What must I say?"

"Brown, call me Brown, Jones, or anything but that."

"Well, Brown, you know I have been a faithful wife, and you have treated me with anything but affection."

"Why did you follow me? I told you I'd kill you if you did."

"It is because I love you, Andrew—"

"That name again!" he uttered, with an imprecation. "Madam, if you were a true wife, you would assist me in my schemes, and we might live in a mansion. I have a plan."

"Well?"

"We might win that reward."

The woman shuddered and covered her face with her hands.

"Do you know, Iris?" he proceeded, with the utmost coolness, "I saw that girl, Victoria Vane, before she was killed. I tell you, she was quite sweet on me."

A groan alone answered him.

"There was money in the house, and I managed to handle some of it," continued the man. "I supposed, or rather, I expected to make more out of that haul, but only got a few paltry dollars. I expect some poor tramp will be arrested for the murder of the girl, and hang, like enough."

"And you—you killed her?

"That would be telling, my dear. These girls get a fellow into a deuce of a scrape sometimes, let alone a fellow's wife. But, my dear, let's drop this subject and talk of something more agreeable."

The creak of a door startled both.

The man seemed startled.

He turned his head, then came to his feet with a hissing cry.

He was peering into the muzzle of a glistening revolver, behind which stood the form of our Yankee friend.

The light in the room was not brilliant, yet faces were plainly discernible.

"August Bordine, I arrest you for the murder of Victoria Vane!" cried the
Yankee, in an awful voice.