“That’s Knuckles, your father’s old foreman!”

“Good.  I’ll find him and take him back with me,” returned Bob; “that is, if things come out right.”

“Don’t worry about that,” smiled Mr. Nichols knowingly.  And when they arrived in New York and met Mr. Perkins, these words were explained, for Bob’s patrons had set detectives at work and had learned all there was to be learned about Len Dardus, even to the banks in which he kept his money, and how much he had.

After holding a consultation and marshaling their evidence, it was decided to call in two members of the city detective force, and upon their arrival, the party set out for the grocery store where Bob had passed so many unhappy days.

No one was about when the six men entered, and, leaving Bob alone, the others withdrew to the corners of the store where the shadows practically hid them.

The proprietor had heard the footsteps, however, and shuffled from his private office.

No farther did he get than the threshold before he saw and recognized Bob.

“You!” he gasped, turning pale.  “What do you want here?”

“I want the money you have stolen from me, Len Dardus!  I want my father’s ranch in Red Top back.  I want you to say you lied when you said my father was crazy when he died!”

The tone in which the boy spoke was cold and bitter.  Yet, instead of terrifying the storekeeper, it caused him to laugh as he exclaimed:  “You can’t blackmail me, you ungrateful young wretch!  Get out of here, before I call the police!  I steal your money, indeed!  Insanity seems to run in the Chester family!”

“Do you think so, Len Dardus?” demanded the ranchman, suddenly emerging from the shadow.

“John Ford!” gasped the storekeeper, his bravado deserting him at the sight of this friend of Bob’s father.

“Yes; John Ford,” retorted the ranchman in a voice that cut like steel.  “You remember when you won your lawsuit with that will you forged?  I told you I should trap you some day. That day has come!”

At these words, the others stepped forth.

From one to another, Dardus looked, then demanded in a terrified voice: 

“What—­what do you want?”

“We want justice for Bob Chester,” said Mr. Perkins.

“We want you to give him every cent you have in bank except the five hundred dollars you had when Horace Chester died.  We want you to sign this paper admitting that you forged the will bequeathing you the ranch in Red Top.  We want you to acknowledge you lied when you told Bob his father was insane.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You go to jail, and we take the money and ranch.”

“But I have no money,” whimpered Dardus.

“Lying won’t help you.  We know every cent you have in bank and where it is.  Here’s the confession, sign it first.”

Glancing from one to another, the storekeeper seemed to seek an avenue of escape.