“Business!  What business can you have with me?”

“More than you think.  You are the widow of John Barclay, ain’t you?”

“Yes; did you know my husband?”

“Yes; that is, I saw something of him just before he died.”

“Can you tell me anything about his last moments?” asked the widow, forgetting the character of her visitor, and only thinking of her husband.

“No, that isn’t in my line.  I ain’t a doctor nor yet a minister.  I say, did he leave any money?”

“Not that we have been able to find out.  He owned this hone, but left no other property.”

“That you know of,” said the tramp, significantly.

“Do you know of any?” asked Mrs. Barclay eagerly.  “How did you happen to know him?”

“I was the barkeeper in the hotel where he died.  It was a small house, not one of your first-class hotels.”

“My husband was always careful of his expenses.  He did not spend money unnecessarily.  With his prudence we all thought he must have some investments, but we could discover none.”

“Have you got any money in the house?” asked the tramp, with seeming abruptness.

“Why do you ask?” returned the widow, alarmed.  “Surely, you would not rob me?”

“No, I don’t want to rob you.  I want to sell you something.”

“I don’t care to buy.  It takes all our money for necessary expenses.”

“You don’t ask what I have to sell.”

“No, because I cannot buy it, whatever it may be.”

“It is—­a secret,” said the tramp.

“A secret!” repeated Mrs. Barclay, bewildered.

“Yes, and a secret worth buying.  Your husband wasn’t so poor as you think.  He left stock and papers representing three thousand dollars, and I am the only man who can put you in the way of getting it.”

Mrs. Barclay was about to express her surprise, when a loud knock was head at the outer door.

“Who’s that?” demanded the tramp quickly.  “Is it the boy?”

“No, he would not knock.”

“Then, let me get out of this,” he said, leaping to his feet.  “Isn’t there a back door?”

“Yes, there it is.”

He hurried to the door, unbolted it, and made his escape into the open beyond the house, just as the knock was repeated.

Confused by what she had heard, and the strange conduct of her visitor, the widow took the lamp and went to the door.  To her surprise she found on opening it, two visitors, in one of whom she recognized Squire Davenport, already referred to as holding a mortgage on her house.  The other was a short, dark-complexioned man, who looked like a mechanic.

“Excuse me the lateness of my call, Mrs. Barclay,” said the squire smoothly.  “I come on important business.  This is Mr. Kirk, a cousin of my wife.”

“Walk in, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Barclay.

“This is night of surprises,” she thought to herself.