It was a risky thing to attempt, but there seemed no other course open, so the march was recommenced.
The loss of the wallet was a mystery. Not one of the posse believed it had been stolen, for they could not think a thief could have escaped detection.
The only surmise was that some squirrels had carried it up a tree. It was a ridiculous assumption, but the only one tenable.
When within a mile of Bennington Crossroads, where the Allens lived, one of the posse caught his foot in the root of a tree and fell flat on his face.
As he raised himself he felt something soft and slippery. He picked it up, and holding it above his head, cried out:
"The wallet! The wallet!"
The others, who had been a little behind, ran forward, and the sheriff at once accused him of having had the wallet all the time, and only when he fell and dropped it would admit its possession.
The man was indignant at the charge, but the suspicion was so strong that most of his companions believed the sheriff was right.
The latter opened the wallet and saw the great red seal. That was all he cared about it, and, placing it in his pocket securely, he very generously proposed that no more should be said about it.