his
hand. The machine stopped and the posse deployed--except Billy, who
acted as chauffeur.

"You wanted to see me, sheriff--at the hotel?"

"Why, yes, if you don't mind," said the sheriff.

"Good dinner? I ain't had breakfast yet!"

"First-class," said the sheriff cordially. "Won't your friend come too?"

"Ah, senor, you eshame me that I am not so hospitabble, ees eet not?"
purred Monte, as he followed Jeff into the tonneau.

The sheriff reddened and Billy choked.

"Nothing of the sort," said the sheriff hastily, lapsing into
literalness. "You were quite within your rights. For that matter, I
know you were at your own bank, dealing, when the crime was committed. I
am holding you for the present as a possible accessory; and, if not,
then as a material witness. By the way, Monte, would you mind if I sent
some men to look through your place? There is a matter of some thirty
thousand dollars missing. Lake asked us to look for it. I have papers
for it if you care to see them."

"Oh, no, senor!" said Monte. He handed over a key. "_La casa es suyo!_"

"Thank you," said the sheriff, with unmoved gravity. "Anything of yours
you want 'em to bring, Bransford?"

"Why, no," said Jeff cheerfully. "I've got nothing there but my saddle,
my gun and an old football suit that belongs to 'Gene Baird, over on the
West Side; but if you want me to stay long, I wish you'd look after my
horse."

"I too have lef' there my gun that I keep to protec' my leetle house,"
observed Monte. "Tell some one to keep eet for me. I am much attach' to
that gun."

"Why, yes, I have seen that gun, I think," said the sheriff. "They'll
look out for it. All right, Billy!"

The car turned back.

"Oh--you were speaking about Monte being an accessory. I didn't get in
till 'way late last night, and I've been asleep all day," said Jeff
apologetically. "Might I ask before or after exactly what fact Monte
was an accessory?"

"Bank robbery, for one thing."

"Ah!... That would be Lake's bank? Anything else?"

The sheriff was not a patient man and he had borne much; also, he liked
Lars Porsena. Perfection, even in trifles, is rare and wins affection.
He turned on Jeff, with an angry growl.

"Murder!"

"Lake?" murmured Jeff hopefully.

The sheriff continued, ignoring and, indeed, only half sensing the
purport of Jeff's comment:

"At least, the wound may not be mortal."

"That's too bad," said Jeff. He was, if possible, more cheerful than
ever.