Everett drew back through the box-hedge, and the boy and the girl at the window saw the woman squeeze in after him.  In another moment the young heir to the Brimbecomb fortune bounded through the doorway.  His face was white; his eyes were filled with fear.

“Did you see that old woman?” he gasped.  “She tried to kiss me, and I punched her in the face, and her cat did this to my arm.”

He pulled up his sleeve, and displayed a long scratch from wrist to elbow.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a ghost, Everett?” asked Ann, shivering.

“Of course, it wasn’t,” boasted Everett.  “It was only a horrid woman with a cat—­that’s all.”

As he closed the door vehemently, there drifted to the children from the marble monument and waving trees the faint wail of a night-owl.

CHAPTER FOUR

On a fashionable street in Syracuse, Floyd Vandecar, district attorney of the city, lived in a new house, built to please the delicate fancies of his pretty wife.  His career had been comet-like.  Graduated from Cornell University and starting in law with his father, he had succeeded to a large practice when but a very young man.  Then came the call for his force and strength to be used for the state, and, with a gratified smile, he accepted the votes of his constituents to act as district attorney.  Then, as Lon Cronk had told, it came within the duty of the young lawyer to convict the thief of grand larceny committed three years before.  After that Floyd married the lovely Fledra Martindale, and a year later his twin children were born—­a sturdy boy and a tiny girl.  The children were nearly a year old when Fledra Vandecar whispered another secret to her husband, and Vandecar, lover-like, had gathered his darling into his arms, as if to hold her against any harm that might come to her.  This happened on the morning following the night when Silent Lon Cronk told the dark tale of suffering to his pals.

Just how Lon Cronk came to know the inner workings of the Vandecar household he never confided; but, biding his time, waited for the hour to come when the blow would be harder to bear.  At last it fell, fell not only upon the brilliant district attorney, but upon his lovely wife and his hapless children.

* * * * *

One blustering night in March, Lem Crabbe’s scow was tied at the locks near Syracuse.  The day for the fulfilment of Lon Cronk’s revenge had arrived.  That afternoon Lon had come from Ithaca with his brother Eli to meet Lem.

“Be ye goin’ to steal the kids tonight, Lon?” asked Lem.

“Yep, tonight.”

“Why don’t ye take just one?  It’d make ’em sit up and note a bit to crib, say, the boy.”

“We’ll take ’em both,” replied Lon decisively.

“And if we get caught?” stammered Crabbe.

“We don’t get caught,” assured Lon darkly, “’cause tonight’s the time for ’em all to be busy ’bout the Vandecar house.  I know, I do—­no matter how!”