“Bail?” repeated Tag.  “Would you go my bail, and trust me not to jump it?”

“The Page honor would never permit you to jump bail,” replied the old man, with simple but positive belief in his tone.

Hardly had Dr. Bentley finished dressing and bandaging the ankle than a new arrival appeared.  Deputy Valden had dropped in, alone, to discover whether there was any news.

“You may wait, deputy, and go with us,” declared Mr. Page, as though the sheriff’s officer were some subordinate of his.  “We will go to the jail as soon as my son is rested and is comfortable enough to be moved.”

“Humph!  I like that!” jeered the deputy.  “This boy is my prisoner, and I’ll take him when I please.  See here, Tag, I don’t want you faking any injuries as a slick way to-----”

“You get outside, my man!” broke in Detective Colquitt quietly, but he took hold of the deputy so forcibly that Valden was quickly on the outside of the tent.

“Now, you come along with me, my man,” Colquitt continued, “and I’ll tell you who’s who.  First of all, this boy is Mr. Page’s son.  Mr. Page can produce all kinds of money merely by signing a check.  He is indignant with you, already, for maltreating his son when you had him under arrest at another time.  Mr. Page may employ lawyers and bring proceedings to have you ousted from your job by the sheriff.  You-----”

Here their voices died out in the distance, but Valden went along willingly enough.  When the pair returned the deputy seemed to have lost his swagger.

“Doc, you’ve been good to me,” said Tag at last, “and now I’ll tell you how I came to hurt my ankle.  You know, of course, that I visited one of your shacks and helped myself to some of your kitchen stuff.  While I was there I came across a queer little black bag.  I opened it, and found a whole lot of queer little bottles.  Medicines, I guess, though I don’t know, for I never had any.  Then I came across one little bottle that I couldn’t see inside of.  I took out the cork, and inside I found some paper rolled up and tucked away.  Two twenties were what I found.  Money was just what I needed, to buy a railway ticket with, so I slipped the money into a pocket.  Then I started off, but, Doe, that money got so heavy---so awfully heavy-----”

From there on Tag repeated the story he had told young Prescott.  During the recital Dick had stepped into the tent.

“I knew you had my money, my boy,” smiled Dr. Bentley, “but I didn’t say anything about it.”

“You didn’t start off to put the officers on my track?” demanded Tag incredulously.

“Not I,” laughed Dr. Bentley.  “I had a different idea.  I suspected you’d buy a railway ticket.  This evening I had intended to drive, to a telegraph station and telegraph about until I found where and to what station a chap answering your description had bought a ticket.  Then I would telegraph to the sheriff just where you were to be picked up as you left the train.  I’ll admit that I wasn’t very anxious to turn you over to the law.  What I wanted was to get on your trail, and then see you turned over to your father.”