“No.”

“Then I’ll be going.  I’ve got to send a long secret message before I go to bed and it takes time to follow the code, you know that.  Good-night,” and in a moment more John Watkins was on his horse and riding away at a good rate of speed.

Adam Adams watched his departure with a variety of thoughts chasing each other through his mind.  The man must be what he claimed, he had shown his badge on the inside of his coat, and been perfectly willing to prove his words.

“If he is honest, he must be on the trail of those counterfeits, and perhaps it was my duty to tell him of my discovery,” mused the detective.  “It is curious how these two cases have wound around each other, or is it all one case?”

Concluding that there was nothing more to be done that night, Adam Adams took himself to the Beechwood Hotel, secured a room, and was soon in the land of dreams.  He arose early, obtained his breakfast, and without waiting to meet Raymond Case, started off to interview Doctor Bird, one of the two persons Margaret Langmore had seen go past the mansion about the time the tragedy was occurring.

He found the doctor an individual with an exaggerated idea of his own importance.  It was hard to bind him down to tell what he actually knew and it took the detective the best part of an hour to learn that the physician knew nothing of real importance.

A short while later Adam Adams learned that the farmer who had been seen going past the mansion was named Cephas Carboy.  He was a strange individual, of no education, who lived on a hillside road, running some distance to the rear of the Langmore house.  When the detective arrived there he found Carboy sitting under a tree smoking a short clay pipe.  The farm was a neglected one, the house about ready to tumble down, and in the dooryard were half a dozen dirty and ragged children, who scampered out of sight on the approach of a stranger.

“Good morning,” said Adam Adams cheerfully.  He saw at a glance that the fellow before him was a thoroughly shiftless character.

“Mornin’ to you,” was the short response.

“This is Mr. Cephas Carboy?”

“Cephas Carboy’s my name—­ain’t much of a mister to it,” and the man grinned feebly.

“You’re the man I want to see, Carboy,” and the detective took a seat on a log close by.

“Want to see me?  What fer?  I don’t know you.”

“I want to see you about that Langmore murder.”

The shiftless man stared and withdrew his pipe from his mouth with trembling fingers.

“I didn’t have nuthin’ to do with that.  They can’t pitch it onto me nohow!  I came past the house, that’s all I did.  I didn’t go inside the gate, I didn’t.  It was Miss Langmore did that murder—­or else Mary Billings.”

“Did you see anybody round the place when you went past?”

“Not a soul.”

“What were you doing around there?”