“If you’re lyin’, you’ll get yourselves inter trouble. I am Ben Bowers, the sheriff from Newport. This is John Nason, one of my deputies. We are here looking after a certain chap who has been passing in this section under the name of Joe Tweed.”
“We know nothing of Mr. Joe Tweed. We never heard of him, sir.”
“That’s all right. You look as if you was honest, but, perhaps, you don’t know what this Tweed has done.”
“We do not.”
“Well, he’s robbed an old miser, over in North Newport, of thirty thousand dollars, and hit the old man a crack on the head that may kill him. Now, if you’ve seen Tweed, or know anything about him, the best thing you can do is to tell everything. You’ll git in a bad scrape if you don’t, that’s all.”
By this time Frank was thoroughly angry, but he held himself in check, seeming perfectly cool, although he spoke firmly.
“We are not robbers, Mr. Sheriff, and we do not associate with robbers. Such an insinuation is decidedly unpleasant.”
“Perhaps they’ve seen him,” said the deputy.
Bart strode to Frank’s side and said, in a low tone:
“Who knows—this chap who calls himself Bunker may be the fellow they are looking after.”