might be a trick in it; perhaps he had intruded upon a burglarious invasion,—­this invitation to the upper chambers might be for the purpose of shutting him in somewhere until the place had been looted.  It was, in any case, a novel adventure, and his curiosity was aroused by the languid pace with which, without pausing at the second floor, the young man continued on to the third.  Through an open door Dan saw a bedroom in order for occupancy; but the furniture in the upper and lower halls was draped, and a faint odor of camphor hung upon the air.  It had occurred to Harwood that he might be stumbling upon material for a good “story,” though just what it might prove to be was still a baffling question.  His guide had not spoken or looked at him since beginning the ascent, and Harwood grasped his stick more firmly when they gained the third floor.  If violence was in the programme he meant to meet it gallantly.  His conductor passed through a spacious bedroom, and led the way to a pleasant lounging- and reading-room with walls lined with books.  Without pausing he flung open a door that divulged a shop, with a bench and tools.  The litter of carpentry on the bare floor testified to the room’s recent use.

“Sit down, won’t you, and have a cigar?”

Dan hesitated.  He felt that he must be the victim of a practical joke, and it was time that his dignity asserted itself.  He had accepted a cigar and was holding it in his fingers, still standing.  His strange guide struck a match and held it, so that Dan perforce took advantage of the proffered flame; and he noticed now for the first time the young fellow’s slender, nervous hands, which bore no marks of hard toil.  He continued to watch them with interest as they found and filled a pipe.  They were amazingly deft, expressive hands.

“Have a chair!  It’s a good one; I made it myself!”

With this the young gentleman jumped lightly upon the workbench where he nursed his knees and smoked his pipe.  He was a graceful person, trimly and delicately fashioned, and in this strange setting altogether inexplicable.  But Dan’s time was important, and he had not yet learned anything as to Edward G. Thatcher’s whereabouts.  This languid young gentleman seemed wholly indifferent to the reporter’s restlessness, and Dan’s professional pride rebelled.

“Pardon me, but I must see Mr. Thatcher.  Where is he, please?”

“He’s gone, skipped!  No manner of use in looking for him.  On my honor, he’s not in town.”

“Then why didn’t you say so and be done with it?” demanded Dan angrily.

“Please keep your seat,” replied the young fellow from the workbench.  “I really wish you would.”

He drew on his pipe for a moment, and Dan, curiously held by his look and manner and arrested by the gentleness of his voice, awaited further developments.  He had no weapons with which to deal with this composed young person in overalls and scarlet hose.  He swallowed his anger; but his curiosity now clamored for satisfaction.