“Never mind what I know,” I replied.  “Why do you take an interest in it?”

“I?  I don’t know anything about it,” he faltered.  “I hardly knew Nicholas Weaver.”

“Indeed?  Yet you want his statement.”

“No, I don’t.  I don’t know anything about his statement,” he continued doggedly.  “I want my papers.  I don’t care a rap about any one else’s.”

It was now my turn to be astonished.  Evidently I had been on the wrong track from the beginning.

“If you don’t want his statement, I’m sure I don’t know what you do want,” I rejoined, and I spoke the exact truth.

“Don’t tell lies, Strong.  You know well enough.  Hand them over.”

“Hand what over?”

“The packet of papers.”

“I haven’t any packet.”

“Strong, if you don’t do as I demand, I’ll send you to prison after your father.”

“I can’t help it.  I haven’t any papers.  If you don’t believe me, search me.”

“Where have you hidden them?”

“I never had them to hide.”

“I know better, sir, I know better,” he fumed.

I made no reply.  What could I say?

“Do you hear me, Strong?”

For reply I walked over to the slatted window and began to whistle.  My action only increased the merchant’s anger.

“For the last time, Strong, will you give up the papers?” he cried.

“For the last time, Mr. Woodward, let me say I haven’t got them, never had them, and, therefore, cannot possibly give them up.”

“Then you shall go to prison, sir.  Mark my word,—­ you shall go to prison!”

And with this parting threat the merchant hurried down the loft steps and rapped loudly for Booth to come and let him out.

When he was gone, I sat down again to think over the demand he had made upon me.  To what papers did he refer?  In vain I cudgelled my brain to elicit an answer.

He spoke about sending me to prison, and in such tones as if it were an easy matter to do.  Assuredly he must have some grounds upon which to base so positive an assertion.

No doubt he was now on his way to Judge Penfold’s office to swear out the necessary papers.  I did not know much about the law, but I objected strongly to going to prison.  Once in a regular lockup, the chances of getting out would be indeed slim.

I reasoned that the best thing to do was to escape while there was a chance.  Perhaps I was wrong in this conclusion, but I was only a country boy, and I had a horror of stone walls and iron bars.

Escape!  No sooner had the thought entered my mind than I was wrapped up in it.  Undoubtedly it was the best thing to do.  Freedom meant not only liberty, but also a chance to hunt down John Stumpy and clear my father’s name.

I looked about the loft for the best means of accomplishing my purpose.  As I have said, the place was over a carpenter shop.  The roof was sloping to the floor, and at each end was a small window heavily slatted.