“There ain’t any doubt he’ll git all that’s coming to him,” the lank fellow said, in a tone of satisfaction. “We ought to be able to catch the last train down and give him his first taste of jail to-night.”
“And I’ll go with you,” Archie said decidedly. “I want to see him good and safe.”
They all finally decided to go as far as Lysander Cobmore’s place, from which Archie and the detective could proceed alone with the guilty man. Making their way quickly through the woods, they found the farmer standing by the barn, a yellow envelope in his hand. His eyes lit up as they fell upon the dapper figure of Joblots.
“Waal, waal,” he drawled. “If you ain’t saved me a heap o’ trouble. This here telegram was jest brought from town, and I hadn’t no more notion than a cat what to do with it.”
He handed the envelope to the detective, who tore it open eagerly. As he took in the contents, his face darkened and he bit his lips angrily.
“Two days wasted!” he snapped, crumpling the message in his hand, and tossing it to the ground. “Wouldn’t that frost you!”
The Reverend Pennyfeather made no bones about picking it up, and, when he had spread it out, this was what he read:
“Hartford crooks nabbed at Westfield. Swag recovered. You are on false trail. Report at office at once.”