Sage descended and bade Piper good-night at the door, watching Sleuth slouch away toward the distant lights of the village, a few of which gleamed through the darkness. Andrew Sage glanced up as the boy returned to the sitting-room.
“Well,” he said, “been discussing football, son?”
“Not exactly,” answered Fred. “Piper had something else on his mind.”
“Isn’t he a bit queer?” asked Mrs. Sage, who was employing herself with some needlework in front of the open fire.
“Most persons think he is.”
“He behaves so oddly. Does he always act like that?”
“Oh, it’s Piper’s way. The fellows don’t pay much attention to it, though they josh him sometimes.”
Fred attempted again to interest himself in his book, but in spite of his efforts, his mind wandered from the story, and he repeatedly found himself thinking of Sleuth and the matter they had discussed. There was, of course, a remote possibility that Piper had not made a mistake in fancying the stranger in Oakdale was James Wilson, for whose capture a large reward had been offered; and only for his promise to remain silent Fred might have told his parents. He was inclined to regret that unconsidered pledge. Presently, his eyes drooping, he decided to go to bed, and bade his father and mother good-night.
In his room he paced the floor, thinking it all over, his perplexity increasing.
“I can’t understand why that man ran away after asking about us,” he muttered. “That’s what gets me. If I hadn’t been afraid of giving mother uneasiness, I’d have told about it when I first came home. Piper can’t be right, for certainly we don’t know any convicts and jail-breakers.”