“Go back to the house,” he said to the old woman.  “You’ll not be needed here any more.  And see that you keep your jaw closed over this,” he added harshly.  And the woman slunk away as if struck, like a dog.

Once inside of the cottage, he took up a glass of water standing on the table, and to this added a powder taken from his pocket, stirring it up well.  Then he looked around to see that there was no other water around the building.

“When she rouses up she will be dry, and she will drink this,” he muttered to himself.  “Half a glass will do the work and she will never bother me or anybody else any more.”

He paused again and took from his pocket several sheets of paper, closely and carelessly written upon in pencil.  The first sheet was headed: 

    Dying Confession of Margaret Langmore.

“A fine forgery, if I do say so myself,” he mused.  “Mat, you always were a plum with the pen.  I’ll add a line telling where she can be found and then send it to the coroner.  That will be better than leaving it around here.  She might find it before she drank that dose.”  He paused again.  “Perhaps she won’t drink it after all.  I’ll give her some of it now, and make sure.”

He raised up the almost lifeless girl, and forced open her lips.  Then he took the glass, and poured half the contents down her throat.  She spluttered, but swallowed, and he let her form drop back on the bed.  He was in a cold perspiration now, and in sudden fear, he fairly rushed out of the cottage and down the hillside in the direction of his home.

CHAPTER XXX

RAISING THE CURTAIN

As soon as his interview with Tom Ostrello was at an end, Adam Adams asked the young man to leave him.

“I am going to follow up this clew,” he said.  “And the quicker the better.”

He looked over a valise he carried and selected a number of things he wanted.  Midnight found him at the depot, boarding a train for Fairfield.  At the latter place he changed and took another train for Bryport.  Arriving at that city, he located at a hotel, and went to bed.

He was up at sunrise and procured an early breakfast.  Then he returned to his room and spent a full hour in donning another outfit and in powdering his face, and adjusting a wig and a reddish moustache.

The same car that had taken him to the vicinity of John Watkins’ residence before, took him there again.  As he approached the house he saw the secret service man coming forth.

“Excuse me, Mr. Watkins, but I must see you,” said he, in a low and suggestive tone.

“To see me?” questioned the man.  “What about?”

“Well, I must see you alone. The sky may be rather red, you know.”

At the last words the secret service man started slightly.  “That’s true, and I don’t like a red sky,” he answered.  “Come into the house.  You just caught me in time.”