"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.
Pages:
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137