It was decided that Luke should remain until his trial in the personal custody of Constable Perkins. Except for the name of it, his imprisonment was not very irksome, for the Perkins family treated him as an honored guest, and Mrs. Perkins prepared a nicer supper than usual. When Mr. Perkins went out he said to his wife, with a quizzical smile: "I leave Luke in your charge. Don't let him run away."
"I'll look out for that," said Mrs. Perkins, smiling.
"Perhaps I had better leave you a pistol, my dear?"
"I am afraid I should not know how to use it."
"You might tie my hands," suggested Luke.
"That wouldn't prevent your walking away."
"Then my feet."
"It won't be necessary, husband," said Mrs. Perkins. "I've got the poker and tongs ready."
But, though treated in this jesting manner, Luke could not help feeling a little anxious. For aught he knew, the tin box taken from his mother's trunk might be the same which had been stolen from the bank. In that case Roland Reed was not likely to appear again, and his story would be disbelieved. It was a strange one, he could not help admitting to himself. Yet he could not believe that the mysterious stranger was a burglar. If he were, it seemed very improbable that he would have left his booty within half a mile of the bank, in the very village where the theft had been committed. It was all very queer, and he could not see into the mystery.
"I should like to do something," thought Luke. "It's dull work sitting here with folded hands."