Hot with fever, August Bordine lifted his aching head for the dozenth time to listen for the returning tread of the queer old peddler.

A glad bark from Tige was the first announcement the sick young man had of the return of his queer friend.

"Tired waiting?" queried Shanks, as he burst through the bushes and confronted the engineer.

"Very tired," moaned the feverish lips.

Then August put his head upon his hand and regarded the peddler with a look of anxious inquiry.

"Did you bring a horse?"

"No, I didn't," answered the peddler abruptly.

"Then you have deceived me," and the sick youth sank back with a groan.

"Nothing of the kind," answered Shanks. "I've learned some tremendous news since I went from here this morning."

"News?"

"Yes. Twon't be safe for you to go back to the city."

"Not safe? What do you mean?"

"This is what I mean," said the peddler, sinking to his knees and adjusting the black patch carefully over his eye. "The whole burgh is in a state of excitement over the discovery of the murderer of Victoria Vane."

"He has been discovered then?"

"Wait. A squad of police went to your house this morning and hunted high and low for you. The papers say that August Bordine murdered the Ridgewood girl, and that he fled last night from the city to escape arrest. What do you think of that?"

"It's all false."

"I suppose so, but if you should fall into the hands of the officers just now, you wouldn't be given half chance for your life."

"But who started this yarn?"

Bordine was deeply interested, and he sat up now and forgot for the time his aching head and weakened body.

"It seems to be the murdered girl's brother who is engineering the search. He is determined that his sister's murderer shall be brought to justice."

"That is right of course."

"Yes, but the evidence points strongly to you. I think, with a speedy trial, you could be convicted, I vow I do, Mr. Bordine. Dare you go back and risk it?"

"I am innocent—"

"True, but you seem guilty. The girl, they say, was stabbed—"

"Yes, with a small dirk."

"Exactly," with a start.

Perhaps he was wondering how the young engineer knew so much if he was guiltless.

"Can you tell me what kind of a knife it was?"

The single eye of the questioner was fixed in a keen gaze upon the face of August Bordine.

He seemed growing suspicious again.

"It was apparently a two-edged blade."

"Apparently?"

"Yes. Of course I could not tell exactly, since the wound was not easily examined."

"I see. Then you have not seen the knife—the dagger that found the life of Victoria Vane?"

"Certainly not."

"And yet it was found in your room."

"Impossible!"

"It is true. That evidence alone might hang you."

"My soul! what does, what can this mean?" groaned the young engineer, sinking back to the rough blanket, weak as a rag under the revelation of this strange man.

"It means that a plot exists for your destruction, and the elevation of another," answered Hiram Shanks, slowly and with deliberation. "Doubtless your journey last night was a part of the plot. I confess that some things puzzle me, yet I am assured that your death is necessary to the successful issue of a plot."

"I cannot understand it."

"Nor I, fully."

Then a short silence fell between the two men, during which the eyes of Bordine examined the face of the queer little peddler keenly. At length he said:

"Mr. Shanks, will you answer me a question?"

"A dozen, if you like."

"Only one?"

"Well?"

"Who are you?"

"Hiram Shanks."

"Yes, but you are no ordinary man."

"Why do you think that?"

"To look at you, one would think—"

Then the engineer came to a sudden pause, and seemed embarrassed.

"I understand what you would say," remarked the peddler, with the faintest smile imaginable. "You imagine I will feel offended if you speak the truth, and say that I look like a battered, old tramp, but I should not. I will tell you the truth, young man. I have seen better days, but misfortunes came upon me, not singly, but in platoons, until I found my life a wreck. A wicked woman, poor whisky, and a reckless heart have brought me mighty low. I do not expect to rise again, but I have resolved to reform and pass the remainder of my days in honest endeavor.

"I turned to peddling from a natural liking to handle goods. I lead a wandering life now, and expect to till I die. I mean, however, to help you all possible, since I am assured that you are a good man and innocent of crime. My advice was once listened to; may I not hope that it will be again? Heed what I gay, trust me, and all will yet come out right. What do you say?"

"That I am unable to disobey at the present time, at any rate," answered the engineer. "Which may prove to be a blessing in disguise, after all."

Then queer Hiram Shanks came to his feet, and gazed sharply about him.

"I am not sure that this is the safest place that could be found," he said, "yet it isn't a place that people hunting for criminals would be apt to look. On the whole, I think you had better remain here until night, at least."

Then the peddler whistled to his dog, and walked away, leaving the sick man alone in the fisherman's shanty.

"Who is guilty? that's the question," muttered Hiram Shanks when once out of hearing of the sick man. "Bordine certainly doesn't act like a guilty wretch, and I, for one, believe him innocent. I must run down the guilty dogs, however, if I would save an innocent man and win the five thousand dollars reward."

Then the peddler hurried from the vicinity, accompanied by his dog.

Bordine fell into a troubled slumber, from which he was awakened by a sound from the murmuring creek.

Instantly his senses were on the alert.

He felt anxious to be at home, to alleviate the fears that he knew his mother must undergo on account of his continued absence.

"Somebody is coming," he thought.

Then he listened as he could with the beating fever in his head.

The dip of a paddle!

It was this that had wakened him.

He roused to a sitting posture and gazed through the open side of the shanty down toward the water.

A man had just landed from an Indian canoe, and stood on the bank, regarding him in evident astoundment. August could scarcely repress a cry.

And no wonder.

In front of him, not ten yards distant, stood the man who attempted to murder him the night before in the lone cabin near the creek falls.

The astoundment was mutual.

Evidently the man was none the worse for the fright he had received over the grave of his victim in the shanty cellar. He stared at the reclining form in the fisherman's shanty as though doubting his senses.

After a moment he advanced, and gazed fixedly into the face of fever-stricken August.

"So!" he exclaimed, and in that one word there was an immense amount of meaning.

Then he walked up to the bunk and stood within a few feet of the sick man.

"Hank Jones, what are you doing here?"

"Well, that's a nice question," sneered the villain as he thrust his hand to his hip pocket. "How in nature did you escape from the creek? Didn't I hit you when I fired?"

With the words the villain drew a revolver.

"It seems not."

"Then I'll make sure of it this time."

"This is unfair," remonstrated August, feeling that he was at the mercy of his enemy, and anxious to gain time, for night was fast falling, and with it the peddler and his dog would doubtless come.

"All is fair in war my friend."

"Why did you attempt to murder me last night?"

"For purposes of my own."

"You concocted a falsehood about Silas Keene and led me into a trap."

"Not entirely false," returned the villain. "The detective was hurt, and has since died."

"Since last night?"

"No, before that, but I will not palaver with you. I set out to rid the earth of my rival in business, and this is the way I do it."

The speaker thrust forward his revolver and fired.