All this time her husband sat on the porch enjoying a cigar, his busy brain dwelling on the latest scheme it had conjured up.
It was unfortunate, he thought, Rose Alstine's coming at that inopportune moment. He could not understand how it was that she put in an appearance at his house.
"She mistook me for her lover, that is evident," he mused. "It was unfortunate, and I may now have some trouble in convincing her that I am true. It is highly important that August Bordine does not meet her again. What a strong resemblance there must be between that man and myself to deceive the eyes of love.
"If I could only get rid of my wife and marry the heiress what a grand stroke it would be. Well, there's a saying that nothing venture nothing gain, and I mean to go in on that principle. I'll win the heiress, but first two persons must cease to breathe."
Who these two persons were the reader can readily guess.
While the young schemer sat there smoking and meditating, a queer team halted in front of the cottage—a team of dogs attached to a small wagon, in which sat a man, with deformed shoulders, and queer little face, framed in red hair and beard, a black patch tied over one eye, while the other was exceedingly red and inflamed.
"Hello!" called the man from the street.
A smile touched the face of Andrew Barkswell.
"A confounded notion peddler," he muttered, "yet a queer-looking specimen."
"Hello!"