McDaniel, the county sheriff, entered.
"Where's Kendall?" he asked without ceremony.
"I don't know; went away yesterday."
The sheriff looked at his companion. "Skipped between two days."
"What's up?" asked Anson, while Elga stared and baby reached slyly for the sugar-bowl.
"Nothing," the sheriff said in a tone which meant everything. "Come out here," he said to Anson. Anson went out with him, and he told him that Kendall had purchased goods on credit and gambled the money away, and was ruined.
His stock of goods was seized, and the house was saved only through the firmness of Anson.
Flaxen shut her lips and said nothing, and he could not read her silence. One day she came to him with a letter.
"Read that!" she exclaimed scornfully. He saw that it was dated from Eau Claire, Wisconsin:
Dear Darling Wife: I'm all right here with father. It was all Gregory's fault—he was always betting on something. I'm coming back as soon as the old man can raise the money to pay Fitch. Don't worry about me. They can't take the house, anyway. You might rent the house, sell the furniture on the sly, and come back here. The old man will give me another show. I don't owe more than a thousand dollars, anyway. Write soon. Your loving
Will.