He put poor old Alf Reesling through the “sweat box” time and again, and worthless Tom Folly had many an unhappy night, wondering why the marshal was shadowing him so persistently.

“Alf,” demanded Anderson during one of the sessions, “where were you on the night of February 18, 1883?  Don’t hesitate.  Speak up.  Where were you?  Aha, you cain’t answer.  That looks suspicious.”

“You bet I c’n answer,” said Alf bravely, blinking his blear eyes.  “I was in Tinkletown.”

“What were you doin’ that night?”

“I was sleepin’.”

“At what time?  Keerful now, don’t lie.”

“What time o’ night did they leave her on your porch?” demanded Alf in turn.

“It was jest half past ’leven.”

“You’re right, Anderson.  That’s jest the time I was asleep.”

“C’n you prove it?  Got witnesses?”

“Yes, but they don’t remember the night.”

“Then it may go hard with you.  Alf, I still believe you had somethin’ to do with that case.”

“I didn’t, Anderson, so help me.”

“Well, doggone it, somebody did,” roared the marshal.  “If it wasn’t you, who was it?  Answer that, sir.”

“Why, consarn you, Anderson Crow, I didn’t have any spare children to leave around on doorsteps.  I’ve allus had trouble to keep from leavin’ myself there.  Besides, it was a woman that left her, wasn’t it?  Well, consarn it, I’m not a woman, am I?  Look at my whiskers, gee whiz!  I—­”

“I didn’t say you left the baskit, Alf; I only said you’d somethin’ to do with it.  I remember that there was a strong smell of liquor around the place that night.”  In an instant Anderson was sniffing the air.  “Consarn ye, the same smell as now—­yer drunk.”

“Tom Folly drinks, too,” protested Alf.  “He drinks Martini cocktails.”

“Don’t you?”

“Not any more.  The last time I ordered one was in a Dutch eatin’ house up to Boggs City.  The waiter couldn’t speak a word of English, an’ that’s the reason I got so full.  Every time I ordered ‘dry Martini’ he brought me three.  He didn’t know how to spell it.  No, sir, Anderson; I’m not the woman you want.  I was at home asleep that night.  I remember jest as well as anything, that I said before goin’ to bed that it was a good night to sleep.  I remember lookin’ at the kitchen clock an’ seein’ it was jest eighteen minutes after eleven.  ’Nen I said—­”

“That’ll be all for to-day, Alf,” interrupted the questioner, his gaze suddenly centering on something down the street.  “You’ve told me that six hundred times in the last twenty years.  Come on, I see the boys pitchin’ horseshoes up by the blacksmith shop.  I’ll pitch you a game fer the seegars.”

“I cain’t pay if I lose,” protested Alf.

“I know it,” said Anderson; “I don’t expect you to.”

The first day that Bonner drove over in the automobile, to transplant Rosalie in the place across the river, found Anderson full of a new and startling sensation.  He stealthily drew the big sunburnt young man into the stable, far from the house.  Somehow, in spite of his smiles, Bonner was looking older and more serious.  There was a set, determined expression about his mouth and eyes that struck Anderson as new.