looked
as black against them as could be, but--where was the proof? There was not
an iota of evidence against them that would hold water an instant before
impartial judges.

"It's positively depressing," sighed Jess, "to know that people have done
mean things and not be able to get an atom of proof against them."

"Never mind," said Peggy, "all's well that ends well. We start for Hampton
to-morrow and once there they won't have a chance to try any more tricks.
Luckily all their mean plans and schemes have ended in nothing. Roy will
be as good as ever by to-morrow, won't you boy?"

Roy nodded.

"I've got to be," he said, decisively; "those tests have got to bring the
_Golden Butterfly_ out on top."

"And they will, too," declared Jess, with a nod of her dark head, "that
poky old Harding and his crowd won't have a word to say when they are
over."

"Let's hope not. It doesn't do to be too confident, you know," smiled
Peggy, throwing an arm round the waist of her enthusiastic friend.

"As the man said when he thought he'd lassoed a horse but found he'd roped
his own foot instead;" grinned Jimsy, "but, say, what's all this coming up
the road?"

Sure enough, a small crowd of ten or a dozen persons could be seen
approaching the Prescott house. They were coming from the direction of the
Mortlake plant. In advance, as they drew nearer, could be seen Mortlake
himself, with a tall man by his side and Fanning Harding. The men behind
seemed to be workmen from the plant.

"Wonder where they can be going to?" queried Jess, idly. For a few moments
more they watched the advancing throng, and then Jimsy cried suddenly:

"Why, that's Sheriff Lawley with Mortlake, and there's Si Hardscrabble the
constable, right behind them, what can they be after?"

"Clues," laughed Peggy, but the laugh faded on her lips as she exclaimed:

"Why--why, they're coming here!"

"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 duti