LITMIR.BIZ

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to make those tracks,” she said, and laughed merrily. “I wish I had looked over my shoulder when I felt the shove!”

      “Perhaps the confounded place is haunted,” I said gloomily.

      We spent half an hour going over the house. Miss Balliol picked out a few pictures and other things which she would like to have, and I promised to pack them up for her. She was planning to stay for a week or two with the Dawsons.

      Although she did not say it in so many words, I realized that her reason for coming here had been to settle the mystery which surrounded her brother’s death. And she would settle it. There was no doubt that within a few days she would find out about that note at the bank. The other trouble, the trouble which had smashed Balliol’s nerves and which was somehow concerned with John Talkso, whoever he was, lay in the background unsolved.

      So, when she had finished with the house, I told her frankly what the banker had just telephoned to me. To be more exact, I told it with some additions and evasions, for I did not think it necessary to say that I was paying off the five thousand. I got around that by saying that the creditor had paid up, having unexpectedly gotten some money, and that the banker had phoned to let Balliol know it was all right.

      Beyond question I got things a little involved, but Martha Balliol did not probe the story. To her mind, her brother might still have been living had he only learned in time that he would not have to meet the note. It was a sad business, of course. Out of justice to the dead chap, I felt in honor bound to relate his reasons for suicide, which did his heart better credit that his head.

      Yes, taking it up and down, it was a sorry and sordid and a dashed brave little story. Balliol was a fool and a coward, perhaps, but the thing he did was done in a bravely silent fashion.

      Martha Balliol cried a little, and tried to laugh a little; but she finished with a clear and sober understanding of why her brother had killed himself. Then she said that she thought I had better taken her on to Dawson’s by road, the sun being pretty hot on the water; so I went out and got the car ready. And I kept the shotgun handy.

      The road, which ran down along the lakeshore, was very dusty—the dust was six inches deep in places. This did not trouble the Paragon, of course, and we hummed into the Dawson yard in fine fettle. Mrs. Dawson was there to receive us, and under her wing Martha Balliol vanished almost at once.

      I paused to help myself to a few nectarines from a tree near the house, then set forth for home. I drove rather fast, for the road was good; and I got almost to my own place when something happened. Both front tires blew at the same instant!

      Fortunately the Paragon was a heavy boat, or we’d have gone topsy-turvy; as it was, I almost went into the trees. Of course cord tires do not act as those had acted without very definite reasons. The reasons were in the shape of stout nails, set in scraps of board which had been buried in the dust. I am afraid that I said some very unscriptural things as I drove home on the rims.

      Who was the miscreant? The thing was intentional; those bits of board had been planted since I had left home. I cursed some more, while I sat working on the tubes and then pumping up the refitted tires sufficiently to reach Lakeport and an air hose.

      One thing was sure: I had inherited John Balliol’s enemies! Of this I had not further doubt. If someone were lurking about the place, it was a case of catch or get caught! And the afternoon was young, or young enough, to do a good deal of catching in!

      With these brilliant deductions crowding me into action, I began to use my head a little. Obviously, I had two sets of enemies—human and inhuman. The human type was very possibly the man John Talkso. The inhuman was the pterodactyl. I was as much concerned over one as over the other; and as I abandoned my tire labors and glanced up at the house, a sudden scheme struck me.

      I picked up my shotgun and sauntered around to the front of the house. For a moment I stood at the lip of the bluff, watching the water and shore, planning just what I would do. Then I hurried down the path to the boathouse, and beneath its shelter laid the gun in the canoe and covered it with fishing tackle and some burlap. After this, I shoved out and paddled down the shore, away from Dawson’s.

      Since I kept close in to the shore, I was in five minutes beyond sight of my place, and to anyone watching, was off for a fishing trip. But I jerked in to shore and landed before I had gone fifty feet farther. Pulling up the canoe, I stowed it among the bushes, took my shotgun, and struck directly up the steep slope.

      It was a hard scramble, but I made it, and in fifteen minutes I gained the road, hot and puffing. I was not a mile from the house, and I went down the road at a good walking clip, certain of being unobserved. The trees to either hand effectually concealed me.

      When at length the trees opened up to the left, I had an excellent view of my house and farmyard. I paused, made myself comfortable among the trees, got my pipe going, and began to watch, flattering myself that I had flanked the entire place very neatly. I was well placed to see whatever was going on. But nothing was going on, it seemed. Things happened around that place in bunches, and just now was a quiet moment.

      I sat with the gun over my knees, and reflected that this had been a crowded day. It was very nice to think that Martha Balliol was just across the bay at Dawson’s farm. The neighborhood seemed very agreeable to me. Of course, the poor girl was overcome because of her brother, but this was a grief which lay in the past; she had nothing unhappy ahead of her. I wished that I were as sure of the same for myself—

      Then, abruptly, in the sunlight-flooded clearing around my house, I saw that for which I had been watching and waiting!

      CHAPTER IX

      I Meet John Talkso

      In plain sight of me, walking out across the open space toward my house, was a man. He carried a bucket in one hand, and a basket in the other hand. These he set down at the veranda steps, and then turned, scrutinizing the lake and shore. His face showed clearly.

      A low word escaped me as I watched. I recognized that face on the instant; he was no other than the enemy of John Balliol, the man whom I had met at McGray’s Tavern—the man with the queer name of John Talkso! An instant later he had vanished inside the house.

      “Now,” I said to myself, “here’s one mystery about to be solved in a hurry!”

      A moment longer I waited. Talkso appeared again, stooped over the basket he had been carrying, and then went around to the front of my house; when he did there, I could not see. He reappeared, took up both bucket and basket, and went into the house.

      I started for the house with the gun under my arm, both barrels loaded.

      When I got safely over the gate and into the yard, I knew that I had my man this time; there was going to be an explanation! To judge from his attire when I had seen him at McGray’s Tavern, this Talkso had money—and he was going to settle what he owed me, chiefly in the matter of tires. What he was doing in my house was another thing. And if he had fired that bullet at me from the hills—

      At that juncture I heard the telephone ringing. The kitchen windows were open and I stole toward the back entrance. An instant later, I heard a man speaking at the telephone; Talkso was answering the call! His infernal imprudence made me chuckle, for at the instrument he must be standing with his back to the door. He was playing directly into my hand!

      “He’s not here—out fishing,” I heard him say. Somebody, obviously, was asking for me. “Who’s this? Oh, hello! This you, Sheriff West?”

      There was a moment of silence, during which time I gained the back door and paused. Talkso was standing at the telephone, right enough, entirely unconscious of my presence.

      “The hell you say!” he exclaimed suddenly, a snarling intonation in his voice. “None of your cursed business what I’m doing here, Mr. West! What? You come out here if you want to—I’ll be gone by then.”

      Again he paused, and again made angry response to the sheriff.

      “Nonsense! You’ve nothing on me—don’t try bluffing me, Mr. West! You can’t do it. That shot?

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