one that took it became frightened or something,
and tried to put it on me. Maybe somebody knew how dreadfully near the
wall I was. Then York paid me lease money, as I told you--three hundred
dollars. It was in my purse last evening when I went out for a ride. As
I sat in the side porch alone, earlier in the evening, I saw the old
Teddy Bear shamble and shuffle about the shrubbery and disappear down
the slope in the shadows on the town side of the place. This morning my
money is all gone. I am going down here after it."

"And you didn't ask York to help you?" Joe queried, anxiously.

"Why, no. I wanted you to help me. Will you do it?" Jerry asked, looking
up into the earnest face of the big farmer beside her.

Was it selfishness, or thoughtlessness, or love of startling adventure,
or insight, or fate bringing her this way? Joe Thomson asked himself the
question in vain.

"I'll do whatever I can do. This is such a strange thing. I knew things
were missing by spells up in town, but we never lose anything down our
way, and you'd think we would come nearer having what old Fishing Teddy
would want if he is really a thief," Joe declared.

"I am going down to old Teddy's shack and ask him to give me my money,
anyhow," Jerry repeated.

"And if he has it and refuses, I'll pitch him into the river and hold
him under till he comes across. But if he really hasn't it?" Joe asked.

"Then he can't give it, that's all," Jerry replied.

"But how will you know?" Joe insisted.

"I don't know how I'll know, but when the time comes I'll probably find
a way to find out," Jerry declared. "Anyhow, I must do something, for
I'm clear penniless and it's this or go mad or go back East. I'm not
going to do either. I'm just going to get mad and stay mad till I get
what's mine."

"I'll be your faithful sleuth, but I can't believe you'll find your bag
of gold at the end of this rainbow. The old man is gentle, though, and
you couldn't have any fear, I suppose," Joe suggested.

"Not with you along I couldn't," Jerry replied.

She was watching the road, and did not see how his eyes filled with a
wonderful light at her words. She was not thinking of Joe Thomson, nor
of York Macpherson, nor yet of Junius Brutus Ponk. She was thinking far
back in her mind of how Eugene Wellington would admire her some day for
really not giving in. That faint line of indecision in his face as she
recalled it in the rose-arbor--oh, so long ago--that was only emph