“No, mother, it is not imagination, for this is how I know this time:  Didn’t you see how red and nervous he got when I told him what Mr. Pembroke had agreed to do.  Right after supper he left for down town without a word.  I don’t know what it is, but there is some fact relative to father’s death that he has never told us.  If we could only find Tad, I’m sure he could help us out.  I’m going to find father’s mine, though, and it’s not so very far from that cabin, either.  Mother, isn’t it wonderful that we are going to have the very old house that father built so long ago?  After I find the mine, I’ll find out about its worth; but it can’t be worth so very much or Tad would never have left it.  If the tunnel is still locked up like you said Tad wrote it was, why, we can’t get into it.  It belongs to Tad.  Perhaps it will never be opened.  Mother, some day when you have a chance, talk with Uncle Joe and see what you can find out.  Father might have left keys and information concerning the mine with him.”

“No, son, he wouldn’t have keys, because it was Tad that locked up the tunnel.  It is Tad that has the keys.  But listen, don’t worry over it a bit or build any false hopes on it.  School will open in a week, and I want you to take advantage of all it can give you.  We’ll be here until Christmas, anyway, I think, unless Aunt Lucy should slip away before that time.”

“I wonder what uncle would say to me if I asked him about Tad when he comes home tonight.  I think that’s what I’ll do.”

About nine o’clock he heard the heavy footsteps of his uncle on the veranda, and in another moment heard him in the hall.  After hanging up his hat and coat, he came into the library, picked up the Evening Telegraph, and began to read, entirely ignoring Willis.  After they had sat thus silently for some minutes, Willis spoke: 

“Uncle, did you ever know a man named Tad Kieser, who was a great friend of my father’s?” The man moved uneasily in his chair, but, without looking up from his paper, he inquired of the boy what he knew of Tad Kieser.

“Not much, to be sure,” returned the boy, half sadly, “only what mother has told me about him; but I’d like to know more.  I think he must have been a very interesting old character, wasn’t he?”

“An old devil and a cut-throat,” retorted Mr. Williams.  “You couldn’t count on him to be square even to his own mother.  A sly old fox always on the hunt.”

“That’s very strange,” replied Willis.  “He surely was not that sort of a man or my father never would have chosen him for a partner.  You surely must be mistaken.”  “Your father didn’t have enough dealings with him to find him out; that was all.  I know him.”

“Tell me about some of the awful deeds he has committed if he is such a fox,” questioned Willis.  “I’ve always thought him absolutely square.  I’ve heard he was the finest man in these mountains, years ago.”

“Who told you any such rot?  I have enough circumstantial evidence against him to put him behind the bars right now,” growled the uncle.