A few minutes later he had Alf Reesling, the town sot, in a far corner of the store talking to him in a most peremptory fashion. It may be well to mention that Alf had so far forgotten himself as to laugh at the marshal's temporary discomfiture at the hands of Mrs. Perkins.
"Alf, have you been havin' another baby up to your house without lettin' me know?" demanded Anderson firmly.
"Anderson," replied Alf, maudlin tears starting in his eyes, "it's not kind of you to rake up my feelin's like this. You know I been a widower fer three years."
"I want you to understand one thing, Alf Reesling. A detective never knows anything till he proves it. Let me warn you, sir, you are under suspicion. An' now, let me tell you one thing more. Doggone your ornery hide, don't you ever laugh ag'in like you did jest now er I'll—"
Just then the door flew open with a bang and Edna Crow, Anderson's eldest, almost flopped into the store, her cap in her hand, eyes starting from her head. She had run at top speed all the way from home.
"Pop," she gasped. "Ma says fer you to hurry home! She says fer you to run!"
Anderson covered the distance between Lamson's store and his own home in record time. Indeed, Edna, flying as fast as her slim legs could twinkle, barely beat her father to the front porch. It was quite clear to Mr. Crow that something unusual had happened or Mrs. Crow would not have summoned him so peremptorily.
She was in the hallway downstairs awaiting his arrival, visibly agitated. Before uttering a word she dragged him into the little sitting-room and closed the door. They were alone.
"Is it dead?" he panted.
"No, but what do you think, Anderson?" she questioned excitedly.