As I was about jumping to the ground I heard a buggy pass on the road.  Looking down, I was surprised to see that it contained Mr. Aaron Woodward and Chris Holtzmann.  On seeing the party on the ground below, the merchant stopped his horse and jumped out.

“How do you do, Mrs. Canby?” he said, as he came over to the fence without catching sight of me.

“Pretty well, Mr. Woodward,” was the widow’s reply.

“Have you heard anything of your money yet?” went on the merchant, with apparent concern.

“Oh, yes—­” and the widow hesitated.

My sister whispered something in her ear.

“It was just found,” said Kate.

The merchant gave a start.

“You don’t mean it!” he cried.  “Where?”

“Down here by the fence.”

“Who put it there?” asked Mr. Woodward, sharply.

“No one.  It was dropped by John Stumpy.”

“Humph!  Perhaps so!” sneered the merchant.

“It’s true,” exclaimed Kate, stoutly.

“More likely by your brother Roger.”

“Avast there!” cried Uncle Enos.  “You’re saying too much.”

“I don’t think so,” replied Mr. Woodward, in deep sarcasm.  “Of course you want to shield the boy all you can, but I ’m sure in my mind that he is guilty.”

“And I’m positive in my own mind that I’m innocent,” said I, and I jumped to the ground.

“Roger Strong!” he cried, stepping back in surprise; and I saw Chris Holtzmann give a start.  “Where did you come from?”

“I came from—­ up a tree,” I returned lightly, and I may add that never before had I felt in such particularly good humor.

“Don’t trifle with me,” he cried in anger.  “Answer my question.”

“I will when I get ready.”

“You refuse?”

“Oh, no.  But I’m not compelled to answer, understand that, Mr. Aaron Woodward.  I’ll answer because I choose to do so.”

“Never mind,” he snapped.  “Where have you been?”

“To Chicago—­ as you know—­ and to Brooklyn.”

“To Brooklyn!” he cried, growing pale.

“Yes, sir, to see Mrs. Agatha Mitts.”

“And did you see her?” he faltered.

“Yes, sir.”

“And she—­” he began.

“What she said or did will be produced in court later on,” put in Mr. Harrison.

“Eh?” the merchant wheeled around.  “Who are you?”

“My name is James Harrison.  I am from Chicago.  I am this boy’s friend, and I am here to see justice done.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you and your colleagues—­ Chris Holtzmann there, John Stumpy, alias Ferguson, and the late Nicholas Weaver—­ have foully wronged this boy’s father.”

“It’s a lie!” cried Aaron Woodward, with a quivering lip.

“It’s the truth,” I said.  “The plain truth, and I can prove every word of it.”

“Prove it!”

“Yes, in every detail, Mr. Aaron Woodward.  I have worked hard fighting for honor, but I have won.  Soon my father shall be free, and for aught I know to the contrary, you will occupy his place in prison.”