Mrs. Bordine sat listening to the rattle of departing wheels, and wondered if she would be able to sit up until the return of her son.

She little imagined how long he was to remain away.

Half an hour after her son's departure the good widow was startled at hearing a sound at the front window.

Slowly the sash was being raised!

The hour was late, and the old lady thought of burglars at once. But what could they possibly want in her house? All the money for the past year's earnings, save what was needed for necessary expenses, was snugly in the bank.

Slowly and cautiously the sash slid upward.

Mrs. Bordine came to her feet, and stood chilled with an awful fear in the centre of the room.

Crash!

A heavy body fell to the floor directly under the window-sill.

Then the curtain was parted, and a man's face peered into the room, with eyes so devilish in their glitter as to make the woman's flesh creep. "Keep it. August sent it. He won't be home to-night," said a deep, gutteral voice.

Then the face disappeared.

The window-sash fell with a loud crash, followed by the most solemn silence.

For fully five minutes Mrs. Bordine stood petrified, without articulation.

What had happened?

The moment she could gather her senses sufficiently, she crossed the floor and gazed at the object that lay under the window.

An ordinary newspaper was twisted about it, and when Mrs. Bordine took it in her hand, she realized that the substance was of metal.

Swiftly she unwound the paper.

As she held up her prize an involuntary exclamation fell from her lips.

She held in her hand a glittering dagger, with gold hilt, and point as keen as a briar. It was a beautiful weapon.

There was something in the glitter of the dainty weapon that was fascinating.

The hilt was of gold, and the serpent's head that formed the design held a pair of glittering eyes that made the woman's flesh creep.

"Why was this dropped in here?" uttered Mrs. Bordine, as she laid the ugly, yet beautiful, weapon aside, and went about securing the window against further intrusion.

"August sent it, that horrible man said. If so, why did he not come to the door like a decent person would?"

Sure enough.

The door to her son's room stood ajar, and mechanically Mrs. Bordine entered here with the delicate dagger in her hand.

The plush-lined dressing-case in front of the mirror stood open, and into this the widow laid the glittering toy.

Shutting down the cover she left the room, and resumed her seat in the big arm-chair.

As may be supposed, no sleep visited the old lady that night. She was too deeply worried on account of the strange happenings of the night. Nothing occurred to mar the quiet of the night, and when at length day dawned the widow breathed easier as she went about her work.

The hour was late ere she placed breakfast on the table. She had waited for the return of August, but waited in vain.

"He will not come. I must eat alone."

She was yet at her breakfast when a furious ring at the door-bell startled her.

When she hastened to answer the summons, she was met in the hall by two men, both wearing the uniform of city police.

"Mercy on us! what do you want here?" cried the widow in startled tones.

"We are here on important business," said the fore most officer. "We come to see your son."

"He is not at home."

"Permit us to judge of that."

Pushing her aside, the two men went through the different rooms of the little cottage, rummaging through everything, much to the dismay and indignation of Mrs. Bordine.

They were dissatisfied with their search, and looked their anger as they had confronted the widow after it was all over.

"Where is your son, Mrs. Bordine?"

"I—I'm sure I can't tell you."

"But you must tell."

"How can I tell when I don't know?"

"A likely story," sneered the officer.

"It is the truth, sir."

The officer went outside, leaving his companion within, with injunction to keep a close watch on the woman.

There were two members of the force outside who had been watching the front and rear of the house.

"Have you seen the young villain?"

"Haven't seen a live soul, sergeant."

"Then he must still be in the house. The old woman is obstinate as death."

"Better not go too fast, sergeant," said the man in charge of the front entrance. "It is possible that we have made a mistake."

"Not the least possibility of it," retorted the sergeant of police. "The young man claims to have positive evidence that Bordine murdered his sister."

"I know, but he may be mistaken."

"He said that the weapon used was a dagger of slender make. If we could find that."

"Have you searched for it?"

"Not exactly. We have been looking more particularly after the man."

The police sergeant returned then to the inside of the cottage.

Mrs. Bordine was still defiant.

Poor old woman, she could not understand why officers of the law should seek her son, much less why they should insult an old lady by discrediting her word.

"I order you out of my house."

Mrs. Bordine was becoming indignant at last.

The men paid no heed to the order. The sergeant began the search once more. "You'll pay for this outrage," declared the widow.

"Hold your tongue," retorted the second man, laying his hand on the arm of the widow. "We have the law and the right on our side."

"You have not," retorted Mrs. Bordine. "I haven't heard you read a search-warrant."

"It's not necessary."

At this moment an exclamation fell from the lips of the police sergeant. He came from August Bordine's room, bearing in his hand a small dressing-case, which he held up before the eyes of the widow.

"Madam, who owns that?"

"You don't, I can tell you that."

"No. Is it yours?"

"It belongs to August."

"Your son?"

"Yes, sir."

"I thought so. And this is his, also?"

With these words the officer opened the case and took therefrom a slender dagger.

At sight of this the wrinkled face of Mrs. Bordine blanched, a fact that did not escape the notice of the keen-eyed sergeant.

"So, ho!" he exclaimed.

"Ah, ha!" uttered the second one, with a grunt.

"Now, what does this mean?" Mrs. Bordine finally gasped.

"Exactly what I would ask," returned the sergeant. "I've no doubt you will deny that this natty little weapon belongs to your son."

The eyes of the police sergeant regarded the widow fixedly.

He prided himself on being an expert detective, and for many days he had been investigating the murder at Ridgewood, with a view to winning the five thousand reward offered by the county sheriff.

The wound given Ransom Vane by the tramp proved but a trivial affair, and immediately on his recovery from the nervous shock into which it had thrown him, the young man came to Grandon and communicated his suspicions to the police.

"I do deny it," uttered Mrs. Bordine at length. "I never saw that dagger until last evening."

"Indeed!"

"Hasn't it been in your son's possession for a long time?"

"It was never in his possession."

"But we find it in his room—"

"I know, and I put it there last night during his absence. He has never seen the weapon."

"Preposterous."

"Yes, thin!"

Mrs. Bordine became exceedingly angry at these incredulous remarks. She at once told how the dagger came into her possession.

Her story was greeted with contemptuous laughter.

The suspicions of the officers now became convictions.

"I am sorry for you, Mrs. Bordine," said Sergeant Railing. "I had hoped that you had no guilty knowledge of your son's iniquities. It seems that you're no better than he, and I must therefore take you with me."

"Take me with you?"

"That's it exactly."

"Where to?"

"To the county jail!"

Poor Mrs. Bordine.

She reeled under the blow, and began to cry—broken utterly under the stroke.

Sergeant Railing was merciless, however, and the poor widow was obliged to keep him company to prison.