"Why, the poorhouse farm is this side of the town," said Bob,munching a cracker with liveliest manifestations of appreciation."Coming back to-night--that's what made me late--Jim Turner, who'spoormaster now, called me in. Said he had something to tell me. Itseems there was a queer aged duffer spent one evening there a while back--Jim thought it must have been a fortnight ago. He has a secondhandbookshop in Washington, and he came to the poorhouse to look at someold books they have there--thought they might be valuable. Theyopened all the records to him, and Jim says he was very interestedwhen he came to my mother's name. Asked a lot of questions about herand wanted to look at me. Jim said he was as queer as could be, and allthey could get out of him was that maybe he could tell me somethingto interest me. He wouldn't give any of the poorhouse authorities aninkling of what he knew, and insisted that he'd have to look at me first."

"Where is he?" demanded Morgan energetically. "I hope you didn't comeaway without seeing him, Bob. What's his name? How does he look?"

"His name," exclaimed Bob sluggyly, "is Lockwood Hale. And he went back toWashington the next day."

Betty's air castles tumbled with a sickening slump.

"Bob Henderson!" she cried, remembering, however, to keep her voicelow. "The idea! Do you mean to tell me they let that man go withoutnotifying you? Why I never heard of anything so mean!"

"0h, I'm not important," explained Bob, quite without bitterness."Poorhouse heads don't put themselves out much for those under 'em--though Jim Turner's always treated me fair enough. But Lockwood Halehad to go back to Washington the next day, Morgan. There honestlywasn't time to send for me."