"Here!" echoed the others.
"Yes, that's what they are;" confirmed Jimsy, as the procession passed inside the wicket gate and came up the gravelled pathway toward the house.
Sheriff Lawley had on his stiffest professional air and Si Hardscrabble's chest was puffed out like a pouter pidgeon. On it glistened, like a newly scoured pie-plate, the emblem of his authority—an immense nickel star as big as a sunflower.
"Roy Prescott here?" demanded the sheriff in a high, official tone. He had known Roy since he was a boy, but seemed to think it a part of his majestic duties to appear not to know him.
"Miss Prescott—I—that is—er—this is a very unpleasant business—I hope——."
It was Mortlake stammering. He mopped the sweat from his forehead as the sheriff interrupted him.
"That will do Mr. Mortlake. Leave the discharge of my official duties to me, please."
"That's right, by heck," chorused the constable, approvingly.
"What's the matter, sheriff?" asked Roy, easily. As yet not a glint of the truth of this visit had dawned upon him.
"Why, Roy, it's about that thar robbery at Galloways t'other night," sputtered the sheriff, looking rather embarrassed, "we've come to the conclusion that you know more about it than you told, and——," he dived into a pocket and drew out an official-looking paper, "an' I got a warrant fer your arrest."