set eyes upon
your face in Buffalo!"

This exclamation, uttered in a dry and musing tone, woke Mr. Byrd from
the stupor into which this astonishing discovery had thrown him.
Advancing upon the stranger, who in size, shape, and coloring was almost
the _fac-simile_ of the person he had so successfully represented, Mr.
Byrd looked him scrutinizingly over.

The man bore the ordeal with equanimity; he even smiled.

"You don't recognize me, I see."

Mr. Byrd at once recoiled.

"Ah!" cried he, "you are that Jack-in-the-box, Brown!"

"_Alias_ Frank Hickory, at your service."

This name, so unexpected, called up a flush of mingled surprise and
indignation to Mr. Byrd's cheek.

"I thought----" he began.

"Don't think," interrupted the other, who, when excited, affected
laconicism, "know." Then, with affability, proceeded, "You are the
gentleman----" he paid that much deference to Mr. Byrd's air and manner,
"who I was told might lend me a helping hand in this Clemmens affair. I
didn't recognize you before, sir. Wouldn't have stood in your way if I
had. Though, to be sure, I did want to see this matter through myself. I
thought I had the right. And I've done it, too, as you must acknowledge,
if you have been present in this terrible place very long."

This self-satisfied, if not boastful, allusion to a scene in which this
strange being had played so unworthy, if not unjustifiable, a part, sent
a thrill of revulsion through Mr. Byrd. Drawing hastily back with an
instinct of dislike he could not conceal, he cast a glance through the
thicket of trees that spread beyond the open door, and pointedly asked:

"Was there no way of satisfying yourself of the guilt of Craik Mansell,
except by enacting a farce that may lead to the life-long remorse of the
woman out of whose love you have made a trap?"

A slow flush, the first, possibly, that had visited the hardy cheek of
this thick-skinned detective for years, crept over the face of Frank
Hickory.

"I don't mean she shall ever know," he sullenly protested, kicking at
the block upon which he had been sitting. "But it _was_ a mean trick,"
he frankly enough admitted the next moment. "If I hadn't been the tough
old hickory knot that I am, I couldn't have done it, I suppose. The
storm, too, made it seem a bit trifling. But---- Well, well!" he
suddenly interjected, in a more cheerful tone, "'tis too late now for
tears and repentance. The thing is done, and can't be undone. And, at