an no one, yet when he turned to note the effect of his remarks on his
son, Willie was no where to be seen. If Jeb had but known it his young
hopeless was already in the loft of the hay barn deep in a small,
red-covered book entitled: "HOW TO BE A DETECTIVE."

Bridge, who had had no intention of deserting his helpless companions,
appeared at last to yield reluctantly to their pleas. That indefinable
something about the youth which appealed strongly to the protective
instinct in the man, also assured him that the other's mask of
criminality was for the most part assumed even though the stories of the
two yeggmen and the loot bulging pockets argued to the contrary. There
was the chance, however, that the boy had really taken the first step
upon the road toward a criminal career, and if such were the case Bridge
felt morally obligated to protect his new found friend from arrest,
secure in the reflection that his own precept and example would do
more to lead him back into the path of rectitude than would any police
magistrate or penal institute.

For the girl he felt a deep pity. In the past he had had knowledge of
more than one other small-town girl led into wrong doing through the
deadly monotony and flagrant hypocrisy of her environment. Himself
highly imaginative and keenly sensitive, he realized with what depth of
horror the girl anticipated a return to her home and friends after the
childish escapade which had culminated, even through no fault of hers,
in criminal tragedy of the most sordid sort.

As the three held a council of war at the rear of the deserted house
they were startled by the loud squeaking of brake bands on the road in
front. Bridge ran quickly into the kitchen and through to the front
room where he saw three men alighting from a large touring car which
had drawn up before the sagging gate. As the foremost man, big and
broad shouldered, raised his eyes to the building Bridge smothered an
exclamation of surprise and chagrin, nor did he linger to inspect the
other members of the party; but turned and ran quickly back to his
companions.

"We've got to beat it!" he whispered; "they've brought Burton himself
down here."

"Who's Burton?" demanded the youth.

"He's the best operative west of New York City," replied Bridge, as he
moved rapidly toward an outhouse directly in rear of the main building.

Once behind the small, dilapidated structure which had once probably
housed farm implements, Bridge pa