“How about taking his picture?” suggested Maurice.

“Just the thing!” Belle clapped her hands.  “Let’s go look for him now.”

Anything that promised some fun was hailed with delight.  It had been a little dull in Rosalind’s absence.  When she was with them nobody was conscious of her leadership, but now she was away they were at a loss.

They waylaid old Mr. Biddle, driving in from the country with a load of apples, and demanded a ride which he good-naturedly allowed them, and they drove down the hill in state.  When they came within sight of the post-office, Belle clutched Maurice’s arm.  “There he is,” she whispered.  “Let’s get out and wait for him.  You have your camera ready.”

The obliging Mr. Biddle stopped his horse and let his passenger out.  As for the stranger, if he had known what was wanted of him, he couldn’t have been more accommodating.  He came slowly down the steps of the post-office, and stood within a few yards of the doorway, where three giggling young persons had taken shelter.  Maurice had time for half a dozen pictures if he wanted them.

“He isn’t a detective,” whispered Jack, “I’ll bet a dime he is a minister.”

“I said he looked like a minister,” Belle retorted.

“I am going to Burke’s to get him to show me about developing,” said Maurice, as the stranger moved away, “Wouldn’t it be fun if we could have his picture to show Rosalind when she comes to-morrow?”

“Is she coming to-morrow?  Oh, I am glad!” said Belle.

“Let’s follow and see where he goes,” Jack proposed, as Maurice left them; and Belle nothing loath, they dogged the steps of the supposed detective.  She was both alarmed and triumphant when he was seen to turn into Church Lane, but all other emotions were swallowed up in surprise when, instead of crossing to the magician’s shop, he entered Miss Betty Bishop’s front gate.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD.

THE DETECTIVE.

“’Twas I, but ’tis not I.”

The next morning Belle and Jack awaited the 10.30 train, seated together on a trunk on the station platform.  Celia saw them from the door of the express office across the road.  Presently they recognized her and began to wave, and then Belle came flying over to tell her how they had taken the detective’s picture and had afterward seen him enter Miss Betty’s gate.

“Why should a detective go to Miss Betty’s?” Celia asked, much amused.

“Why should he go if he wasn’t a detective?” Belle demanded.

“Why not?  He may be an agent, or a friend,” Celia suggested, laughing.

A whistle in the distance left no time for argument.  Belle flew back to the platform, where Maurice had joined Jack.  Celia turned toward home.

She was more perplexed over Belle’s story about the ring than she cared to own.  Not for a moment did she think Morgan had taken it; and yet he was getting to be an old man and she recalled something she had heard her father say about a certain brain disease that first showed itself in acts wholly out of keeping with the character of its victim.  Could this be the explanation?