The Westmores were talking it over with their visitor when the doorbell rang and a farmer named Hiram Salter presented himself.
"Good evenin', Mrs. Westmore," said the farmer. "I found the store shut up, so I thought I'd come to the house. I've got a letter for you."
As he spoke he handed out a slip of yellow store paper folded in the form of a letter. On the slip was scrawled:
"We have been detained and won't be home until nearly noon to-morrow. It's all right, so don't worry."
"J."
"P. S.—Send Mr. R. word."
"That's a queer note," was Mr. Rush's comment. He turned to the farmer. "Where did you get it, Mr. Salter?"
"Got it from a feller who stopped my wagon when I was a-drivin' into town. He asked me to leave it here an' gave me ten cents. It was so dark I couldn't make out who he was."
"Oh, I guess it is all right," came from Mr. Westmore. "They are going to stop over with some of their boy friends."
The farmer went off, and presently the Westmores retired. But Harry was not satisfied, and it was a long time before he could go to sleep.