"Beg your pardon, parson," interrupted one of the men, "but you haven't got the right pig by the ear. We're not highwaymen. I'm the sheriff of this county, and Jim's a constable. And as for Matalette, he's a counterfeiter, and we're after him."
Crewne dropped his bridle-rein, and his lower jaw, as he exclaimed:
"Impossible!"
"'Tis, eh?" said the sheriff. "Well, we've examined several lots of money he's paid out lately, and there isn't a good bill among 'em."
Crewne mechanically put his hands in his pocket and drew forth the money Matalette had given him to buy a horse with. The sheriff snatched it.
"That's some of his stock?" said he, looking it rapidly over. That seems good enough."
"What will become of his poor daughter?" ejaculated the young preacher, with a vacant look.
"What, Helen?" queried the sheriff. "She's the best engraver of counterfeits there is in the whole West."
"Dreadful—dreadful!" exclaimed the young preacher, putting his hand over his eyes.
"Fact," replied the sheriff. "You parsons have got a big job to do 'fore this world's in the right shape, an' sheriffs and constables ain't needed. Wish you good luck at it, though 'twill be bad for trade. You'll keep mum 'bout this case, of course. We'll catch 'em in the act finally; then there won't be any danger about not getting a conviction, an' our reward, that's offered by the banks."