"We—we—we're lookin' fer a tramp who said he robbed a hen roost," faltered Isaac Porter.
"What is the meaning of all this?" called a strong voice from the dining-room, and the flabbergasted Tinkletownians turned to face Colonel Randall himself, the owner of the house.
"Derned if I know!" muttered Anderson Crow; and he spoke the truth.
"Why, it's Anderson Crow!" cried a gay young voice.
"Jumpin' Jehosophat!" ejaculated the detective; "it's the body!"
"The school-teacher!" exclaimed the surprised Tinkletownians, as with their eyes they proceeded to search the figure before them for blood stains. But no sooner had the chorused words escaped their lips than they realised how wretchedly commonplace was their blundering expression in comparison with the faultlessly professional phraseology of their leader; and, overwhelmed with mortification, the posse ached to recall them; for that the correct technical term had been applied by one for years trained to the vernacular of his calling was little consolation to these sensitive souls, now consumed with envy.
In the meantime, the quarry, if we may be permitted so to designate her, stood before them as pretty as a picture. At her side was Tom Reddon, and a dozen guests of the house fell in behind them.
"Did Rosalie tell you?" demanded Miss Banks. "The mean thing! She said she wouldn't."
"Ro—Rosalie!" gasped Anderson; "tell me what?" nervously.
"That I was—was coming over here with Tom. Didn't she tell you?"