ll but a crack through which a light filtered.

"He was carrying something," said Garland. "Could you see what it was?"

"No. Sounded like a milk can or a tin trunk."

The light went on again in the next room, but the men moved away from
the window, and Turkey heard no more than odd snatches of conversation
which were not relevant to his affairs. Listening proving unprofitable,
Turkey softly opened his door and carrying his boots went downstairs.
Nobody seemed to be about. He went down a hall to a rear door and slid
out into the night. Thence he picked his way through the litter of a
back yard to the foot of the flight of steps which led to Mr. Braden's
apartments, and leaving his boots at the bottom ascended with great
care.

Turkey had identified the object which Mr. Braden had brought back with
him as a typewriter in its carrying case. To Turkey it seemed
mysterious. Why should Braden who had two perfectly good machines in his
office below, go out the back way and bring in a machine from an old
shed? It was funny. But he had made up his mind to find out all he could
about Braden and his doings, and to start at once. Braden had been
playing a crooked game right along. If Turkey could catch him in
anything--get something on him--it might help to save the ranch. If not
that, it would help him to play even. He put his eye to the crack of the
door.

He saw Braden and Godfrey French. They were at a table on which stood a
typewriter, and Braden appeared to be signing some legal documents. They
were talking, but Turkey could not distinguish words. Presently French
rose, folded up some papers and put them in an inner pocket. Braden went
with him to the door which was the ordinary entrance to the apartment,
and gave upon a hall and flight of stairs leading down to the office.

Turkey went down the outside stairs and put on his boots. He was
disappointed in not being able to over-hear their conversation, but he
had heard a good deal that night.

What would he do?

CHAPTER XXVII

WHILE SHELLING PEAS

Miss Jean, spick and span in a cool dress of wash fabric, took a
critical survey of herself in the mirror, and adjusted a wide shade hat
at exactly the right angle. Then, taking a bright tin pan she sallied
forth into the afternoon sun. Her course led her back of the house,
through the orchard, and finally to a garden patch a couple of acres in
extent. There, by a strange coincidence, Chetwood was working among t