And then, right out of a clear sky, came another
proof that was even more convincing. Do you happen to know who the young
woman was who discovered the bank robber on the steamboat?"

"I? How should I know?"

"I didn't know but she had told you," was the demure rejoinder. "It was
Charlotte Farnham."

"What!" ejaculated Raymer. But he was not more deeply moved than was the
man behind the window curtains. If Broffin's dead cigar had not been
already reduced to shapeless inutility, Miss Grierson's cool
announcement, carrying with it the assurance that his secret was no
secret, would have settled it.

"It's so," she was adding calmly. "I found out. She and her aunt were
passengers on the _Belle Julie_; that was the boat the robber escaped
on, you remember. Doctor Bertie told me that. And she was the young
woman who was having the draft cashed in the Bayou State Security. How
do I know? Because her father bought the draft at poppa's bank, and in
the course of time it came back with the Bayou State Security's dated
paying stamp on it. See how easy it was!"

Raymer's laugh was not altogether mirthful.

"You are a witch," he said. "Is there anything that you don't know?"

"Not so very many things that I really need to know," was the mildly
boastful retort. "But you see, now, how foolish my suspicions were. Mr.
Galbraith meets Mr. Griswold just as he would any other nice young man;
and Charlotte Farnham, who recognized the robber even when he was
disguised as a deck-hand, sees Mr. Griswold pretty nearly every day."

Raymer nodded. Though he would not have admitted it under torture, the
entire matter figured somewhat as a mountain constructed out of a rather
small mole-hill to a man for whom the subtleties lay in a region
unexplored. He wondered that the clear-minded little "social climber,"
as his sister called her, had ever bothered her nimble brain about such
an abstruse and far-fetched question of identities.

"You said, a few minutes ago, that Griswold calls himself a Socialist.
That isn't quite the word. He is a sociologist."

Miss Grierson ignored the nice distinction in names.

"Socialism goes with being poor, doesn't it?" she remarked. "Since Mr.
Griswold's ship has come in, I suppose he finds it easier, and
pleasanter, to be a theoretical leveller than a practical one."

"That is another thing I have never been quite able to understand," said
the iron-founder. "You say his father left him poor: where did he