“‘Let’s go back after that coffee,’ said Kirke bravely.

“He took a bite of his sandwich thoughtfully, and I did of mine, trying to eat the lump in my throat with it.  An hour later we went our separate ways.

“I heard nothing further for two weeks, then Mr. Nesbitt was called East on business and said I might go home if I liked.  Imagine my ecstasy.  I found the family, as well as all Methodists in general, quite uplifted over the strange case of Kirke Connor.  From a semi-satanic, he had suddenly evoluted into a regular pillar, as became the son of his saintly mother and his orthodox father.  He attended church, he sang in the choir, he went to Sunday-school, he was prominent at prayer-meeting.  Every one was full of pious satisfaction and called him ‘dear old Kirke,’ and gave him the glad hand and invited him to help at ice-cream socials.  No one could explain it, they thought he was a Mount Mark edition of Twice Born Men in the flesh.

“So the first afternoon when he drove around with his speedy little brown horse and his rubber tired buggy and asked me to go for a drive, father smiled, and Aunt Grace demurred not.  Maybe I could give him a little more light.  I watched him pretty closely the first mile or so.  He had nothing to say until we were a mile out of town.  He is a good-looking fellow, Carol,—­you remember, of course, because you never forget the boys, especially the good-looking ones.  His eyes were clear and slightly humorous, as if he knew a host of funny things if he only chose to tell.  Finally in answer to my reproachful gaze, he said: 

“’Well, I didn’t have anything to say about it, did I?  I did not ask to be born a minister’s son.  It was foreordained, and now I’ve got to live up to it in self-defense.  There may be forgiveness for other erring ones, but I tell you our crowd is spotted.’

“I had nothing to say.

“‘Well, you might at least say, “Good for you, my boy.  Here’s luck?"’ he complained.

“I was still silent.

“‘It is good business, too,’ he continued belligerently.  ’I am selling lots of furniture.  I have burned the black and white cards.  I have broken the ice-cold bottles.  I have shunned the gilded youths with mellow voices.  I go to church.  I sell furniture.  I sleuth Matters.’

“‘You what?’

“’I am trailing Matters.  Turn about.  Where he goeth, I goeth.  Where he lodgeth, I lodgeth.  His knowledge is my knowledge, and his tricks, my salvation.’

“‘You make me sick, Kirke.  Why don’t you talk sense?’

“’He is crooked, Connie, and everybody knows it.  But it is no cinch catching him at it.  Smithson is going to be elected and Matters knows it.  But the only way I can keep out of that trial is to get something on Matters.  So whenever he is out, I am out on the same road.  He is going toward New London this afternoon and so are we.  I have got just five more days and you must be a good little scout and go driving with me, so he won’t catch on that I am sleuthing him.  He will think I am just beauing you around in the approved Mount Mark style.’