“I am terribly anxious to know if my grandfather arrived safely at the home of my friend, Gregory Drum, at Ironton, where I sent him a few days ago.”
Ralph and his companion went on to Ironton at once. They located the Drum residence, but did not find its proprietor at home. His wife, a thin, nervous lady, told how a few days before an old man named Palmer had come there, saying that his son was well known to her husband, which the lady believed to be true.
“He acted so strange I was nearly frightened to death,” narrated the lady. “The second day here I found him astride of the roof ordering some imaginary men to string it with wires. The next day a neighbor came running in to tell me that he was up on a telegraph pole with a little pocket clicker. My husband was away, I was frightened for the man’s good as well as my own, and I had him taken in charge by the town marshal. He’ll treat him kindly till my husband returns, and Mr. Palmer will be in safe hands.”
Ralph followed up this explanation by going at once to the marshal’s headquarters. There was a low, one-story building with an office, and a barred room comfortably furnished beyond. The marshal listened to Ralph’s story with interest.
“I’ll be glad if you can make head or tail out of the old fellow,” he said, and led the way into the barred room.
“Hello!” exclaimed Ralph, with a violent start as he entered the apartment.
“Thunder! I say, where did you get him?” ejaculated Zeph Dallas, with an amazed stare.
Across a cot lay a man asleep. He wore a stained bandage across his head and was haggard and wretched looking.
“Oh, that?” replied the marshal. “That’s mystery No. 2. That’s a bigger puzzle than the old telegrapher. He’s the man we picked up mad as a March hare, with twenty thousand dollars in banknotes in his pockets.”
“Zeph,” spoke Ralph in a quick whisper, “you know who it is?”