“It’s positively depressing,” sighed Jess, “to know that people have done mean things and not be able to get an atom of proof against them.”

“Never mind,” said Peggy, “all’s well that ends well.  We start for Hampton to-morrow and once there they won’t have a chance to try any more tricks.  Luckily all their mean plans and schemes have ended in nothing.  Roy will be as good as ever by to-morrow, won’t you boy?”

Roy nodded.

“I’ve got to be,” he said, decisively; “those tests have got to bring the Golden Butterfly out on top.”

“And they will, too,” declared Jess, with a nod of her dark head, “that poky old Harding and his crowd won’t have a word to say when they are over.”

“Let’s hope not.  It doesn’t do to be too confident, you know,” smiled Peggy, throwing an arm round the waist of her enthusiastic friend.

“As the man said when he thought he’d lassoed a horse but found he’d roped his own foot instead;” grinned Jimsy, “but, say, what’s all this coming up the road?”

Sure enough, a small crowd of ten or a dozen persons could be seen approaching the Prescott house.  They were coming from the direction of the Mortlake plant.  In advance, as they drew nearer, could be seen Mortlake himself, with a tall man by his side and Fanning Harding.  The men behind seemed to be workmen from the plant.

“Wonder where they can be going to?” queried Jess, idly.  For a few moments more they watched the advancing throng, and then Jimsy cried suddenly: 

“Why, that’s Sheriff Lawley with Mortlake, and there’s Si Hardscrabble the constable, right behind them, what can they be after?”

“Clues,” laughed Peggy, but the laugh faded on her lips as she exclaimed: 

“Why—­why, they’re coming here!”

“Here!” echoed the others.

“Yes, that’s what they are;” confirmed Jimsy, as the procession passed inside the wicket gate and came up the gravelled pathway toward the house.

Sheriff Lawley had on his stiffest professional air and Si Hardscrabble’s chest was puffed out like a pouter pidgeon.  On it glistened, like a newly scoured pie-plate, the emblem of his authority—­an immense nickel star as big as a sunflower.

“Roy Prescott here?” demanded the sheriff in a high, official tone.  He had known Roy since he was a boy, but seemed to think it a part of his majestic duties to appear not to know him.

“Miss Prescott—­I—­that is—­er—­this is a very unpleasant business—­I hope——.”

It was Mortlake stammering.  He mopped the sweat from his forehead as the sheriff interrupted him.

“That will do Mr. Mortlake.  Leave the discharge of my official duties to me, please.”

“That’s right, by heck,” chorused the constable, approvingly.

“What’s the matter, sheriff?” asked Roy, easily.  As yet not a glint of the truth of this visit had dawned upon him.

“Why, Roy, it’s about that thar robbery at Galloways t’other night,” sputtered the sheriff, looking rather embarrassed, “we’ve come to the conclusion that you know more about it than you told, and——­,” he dived into a pocket and drew out an official-looking paper, “an’ I got a warrant fer your arrest.”