ahead of him.

This servant had a newspaper and some letters in his hand. He seemed to
have come from the village post-office.

Leaning over the railing of the veranda, as if waiting for this servant,
was one of the handsomest girls Nick had ever seen. She was a beauty of
the dashing, dark-eyed type--a girl of courage and strong will.

The servant gave her the letters just as Nick came in sight. He not only
gave her those he had been carrying in his hand, but he drew one from
his pocket with a motion that suggested secrecy.

Nick rode up to the veranda, introduced himself, and asked to see Mrs.
Stevens.

"Let James take your horse," said the girl. "Come into the house, if you
please. I will speak to my mother."

Nick went into the cool and pretty parlor. Miss Stevens left the room
for a moment, and then returned with her mother.

The detective spoke of the occurrences of the day before, and requested
permission to see the room in which the jewelry had so mysteriously
appeared.

While they were talking thus, it happened that Miss Stevens drew her
handkerchief from her pocket, and as she did so two little pieces of
paper fell to the floor.

"So she's read that letter, and torn it up so soon," was Nick's silent
comment.

Almost immediately Miss Stevens said:

"There's the mail on the table, mother. I forgot to give it to you.
There are several letters."

Mrs. Stevens glanced at the addresses.

"They are all for me," she said. "Was there nothing for you?"

"No, indeed," cried the girl. "There's nobody who writes letters to
me."

"Lies to her mother, does she?" said Nick to himself. "Well, it begins
to look bad for her."

Miss Stevens did not notice the bits of paper on the floor, and Nick by
clever work succeeded in getting possession of them.

Then, by Mrs. Stevens' permission, he went to look at the room already
referred to.

No sooner was he there than he got rid of the lady upon some plausible
excuse, and so had an opportunity of examining the bits of paper.

They were ordinary letter paper impossible to trace.

One bit was blank on both sides. The other bore some queer little marks,
but no writing. To Nick the marks were quite clear. They were the dots
and dashes of the Morse telegraphic alphabet. They represented the
letters n, t, b, e, t, r, a, written very small on a narrow scrap, not
more than an inch long.

"Don't betray," muttered Nick. "Worse and worse. Miss Stevens will
evidently b