"Help! Murder!"

It was a startling cry that echoed through the grounds and fell on the ear of the man who was passing.

He listened a moment, but the sound was not repeated.

Vaulting the fence, the man hastened in the direction of the summer-house.

He soon gained a position where his black eyes took in a somewhat startling scene—a tall, slender man bending over the prostrate form of a woman, the latter lying still and white on a low, wide bench.

"Have I killed her?" muttered the man, in audible tones. "Well, if I have, it is not my fault; she forced me to do it, and—"

He started then, and uttered a great cry. A hand touched his face, and a man's visage peered into his.

Instantly the hand of Barkswell sought his hip.

"Don't draw, brother, it's only me."

Barkswell stared in a startled way into the face of the new-comer.

It was indeed Perry Jounce, but he had changed so in the past four and twenty hours as to seem like another man.

His beard was gone, and a new hat and suit of clothes altered his appearance wonderfully.

"What have you been doing to yourself, Perry?"

"Fixing up so't I kin go sparkin' as well as you, brother darling," returned the tramp, forcing a gurgling laugh. "What's up here? Iris dead—you her murderer!"

"Don't be a fool, Perry, she's only fainted."

"But I heard her scream murder."

The eyes of Perry Jounce pierced the guilty villain to the quick. If there was one being in the wide world whom the miserable tramp loved, that person was his sister, the wife of Andrew Barkswell, and the only kin he had in the wide world.

"She was in one of her tantrums, that is all."

"Man, I believe you're lyin' now."

"Be careful."

Barkswell drew his revolver.

The threat did not appear to affect Perry Jounce.

"It wouldn't be good fur you ter snap that pistol at me, Andy. I jest heard you say't mebbe you had killed her, meanin' Iris. Now what hev you ben up to?—let's hear right down quick, or thar'll be a tussle right hyar and now."

There was a determined ring in the man's voice not to be mistaken.

Barkswell wished to avoid a quarrel, and so he said with a smile:

"You misunderstood my meaning entirely, Perry. Iris was determined on quarreling with me over an unimportant matter. You know she's terribly jealous, and she worked herself up into a fainting fit."

Perry Jounce accepted the explanation with a growl. He did not attempt to push matters to a crisis. He had received some money from Barkswell, and was anxious to keep in with that gentleman.

"Lead the way, pardner, and I'll take her to the house."

Perry Jounce lifted the seemingly lifeless form of his sister in his arms and strode from the summer-house.

Barkswell led the way to the cottage, and a little later the woman revived. When questioned by Jounce she refused to make any explanation.

"Confound it," growled the tramp, "that man of yours'll kill you some time, Iris, and you'll let 'im do it 'ithout making complaint."

"I should not care to see Andrew in prison."

"He may go thar yet."

"Anything new?"

"Somebody's got ter swing fer the crime at Ridgewood; why mayn't it be
Andy?"

The woman started and grew pale as death.

Her brother thought she was on the point of fainting again.

"Don't worry," he cried, quickly. "It may never be fetched home to Andy."

"Do you believe he is guilty?"

"Don't you?"

He sought to evade the question.

"I—I cannot say. I have thought—"

"That I had a hand in it, eh?"

The eyes of the tramp regarded his sister's face fixedly.

But Mrs. Barkswell refused to make reply. She shuddered and drew her shawl about her as though experiencing a sudden chill.

All this time her husband sat on the porch enjoying a cigar, his busy brain dwelling on the latest scheme it had conjured up.

It was unfortunate, he thought, Rose Alstine's coming at that inopportune moment. He could not understand how it was that she put in an appearance at his house.

"She mistook me for her lover, that is evident," he mused. "It was unfortunate, and I may now have some trouble in convincing her that I am true. It is highly important that August Bordine does not meet her again. What a strong resemblance there must be between that man and myself to deceive the eyes of love.

"If I could only get rid of my wife and marry the heiress what a grand stroke it would be. Well, there's a saying that nothing venture nothing gain, and I mean to go in on that principle. I'll win the heiress, but first two persons must cease to breathe."

Who these two persons were the reader can readily guess.

While the young schemer sat there smoking and meditating, a queer team halted in front of the cottage—a team of dogs attached to a small wagon, in which sat a man, with deformed shoulders, and queer little face, framed in red hair and beard, a black patch tied over one eye, while the other was exceedingly red and inflamed.

"Hello!" called the man from the street.

A smile touched the face of Andrew Barkswell.

"A confounded notion peddler," he muttered, "yet a queer-looking specimen."

"Hello!"

At the second call Barkswell rose to his feet and walked out to the gate.

"Be you the man of the house?"

"I am."

"Wal, I've got the neatest set o' table-clothes you ever set eyes on. Irish linen, direct from the green sod, warranted to be the best article of the kind for the money in North America."

"I don't wish any."

"But you'll look at 'em. You're a gentleman; I can tell by the looks of your countenance."

"I don't care for any."

"Hair oil, toilet articles, the neatest—"

"You needn't mind showing them," as the little, elderly man sprang out of his low wagon and hobbled to the walk with a tin box under his arm.

"Where's the woman—your wife? Mebbe she'd like to look at something."

The man pushed his way through the gate and insisted on entering the house.

This was wholly unnecessary Barkswell thought, but he permitted the peddler to have his way.

Iris and her brother entered t spread out his wares.

He talked glibly, but was such a repulsive-looking personage as to render his long stay objectionable. In order to be rid of him Mrs. Barkswell made a small purchase, after which, finding that he could sell nothing further, the peddler thrust his wares back into the tin box and shuffled out of the room.

"Pretty place you've got here," he remarked, as he stood on the porch and gazed about him.

"Yes," admitted Barkswell.

"You own it?"

"Yes."

"Your name is—"

"Bordine."

The man uttered the name involuntarily. He had been acting as Bordine, and somehow, he seemed growing into that personage more and more.

"Well, well," grunted the peddler, holding out his hand, "You an' I ought to be acquainted. My wife is your own aunt, did you know it?"

Andrew Barkswell regarded the speaker in astonishment. He thought he detected an ironical ring in the man's voice, but when he glanced into the fellow's face he seemed honest enough, in fact the red eye failed to show the least feeling on the subject—the one under the black patch was, of course, as unspeakable as the tomb.

"I was not aware of the relationship," said the plotting villain, as he clasped the hand of the queer-looking peddler.

"Lor', that's funny."

"You don't live in town?"

"I reckon not. So you don't remember me, August?"

"I can't say that I do."

"You've certainly heard your ma speak of Hiram Shanks, the man that married her youngest sister, Lucretia?"

Again the young man shook his head.

"Well, it beats all," grunted Mr. Shanks. "I thought you must have heard of me. Since my wife died I've kinder gone to rack and ruin. I ain't the man I used to be in my young days, oh no!" with a long-drawn sigh.

"I should judge not."

"Call your ma, August. I know she'll recognize the man that married her sister Lucretia."

"Mother isn't at home."

"Bad again. When will she return?"

"Not soon."

"Visitin'?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind lettin' me stop over night with ye? Hotel bills is powerful large, and for the sake of relationship, I think you will let me bunk one night. My team won't eat much, and as for me, a crust of bread and cup o' tea will set the inner man in good shape."

"I am sorry, but—"

"Oh, no 'pologies. Of course, if you can't keep me it's all right. I'm no beggar."

Once more the peddler shook the hand of Mr. Barkswell, and then shuffled away. As he passed through the gate a bit of paper fluttered to the ground from one of the peddler's pockets. After the queer fellow's departure Barkswell secured the paper and could scarcely repress an exclamation as he read the lines it contained.