Mr. Crow consented to undertake the baffling case, and it was "so
ordered."

"Have you got a clue?" whispered Alf Reesling as he started homeward in
the wake of the preoccupied sleuth.

"No, but I will have 'fore mornin'," replied Anderson.

And he never uttered truer words in all his life.

* * * * *

Being a man of action, Mr. Crow began operations at once. He went home
and for nearly an hour worked over the list of subscribers to the fund,
aided by his wife and daughters. Among them they separated the wheat
from the chaff. At least twenty per cent. of the contributors were set
aside in a separate group and labelled "no good." Ten per cent. were
designated as "fairly good," and the remainder as "good." It must not be
assumed that the division had anything to do with the Loop mystery. Mr.
Crow was merely figuring out who would pay and who would not.

It was shortly after ten o'clock when he started, in a roundabout way,
for the home of Eliphalet Loop. The more direct route would have been
down the street from his own house to the Boggs City pike, first turn to
the left, fifty paces straight ahead, and he would have found himself at
Eliphalet's front gate--in all, a matter of half a mile. But he
preferred to descend upon the premises from an unexpected angle. So he
approached by a far, circuitous way and arrived at the gate after
traversing something like three miles of wood and pasture-land,
stealthily following the stake-and-rider fences in order to screen his
movements. He was well aware that Mr. Loop did not own a dog, on account
of the expense.

The house was dark. Mr. Crow leaned against the hitching-post and mopped
his brow. Then he blew his nose. It was his custom when he blew his
nose, to blow it with tremendous force. Having performed these highly
interesting feats he restored his handkerchief to his hip pocket. He
remembered quite clearly doing all these things. Afterwards he claimed
that he blew his nose as a signal. In any case, it _proved_ to be a
signal. A thinly pleated light appeared in one of the front windows of
the house, narrow little streaks one above the other, shining through
the window-slats.

The Marshal of Tinkletown stared. He craned his neck. A chill of
excitement swept over him. Was he about to witness the surreptitious
departure of the unwelcome guest? Had he arrived in the nick of time?
And what in the world was he to do if the fellow had a revolve