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“Awfully,” she confessed, “but it’s safer here than on the beam,” she added, and his heart grew very tender as he detected the fatigue in her voice. “Anyhow, we have the papers safely signed.”

“Mrs. Delancy, I–I swear that you shall never regret this day and night,” he said, stopping in his walk and placing his hands on her shoulders. She caught her breath quickly. “Do you know what I mean?”

“I–I think–I’m not quite sure,” she stammered.

“You will know some day,” he said huskily.

When Mr. Higgins appeared at the end of the shed, carrying a lighted lantern, he saw a tall young man and a tall young woman standing side by side, awaiting his approach with the unconcern of persons who have no interest in common.

“Ah, a lantern,” cried Crosby. “Now we can see what we look like and– and who we are.”

Higgins informed them that an east-bound passenger train went through in twenty minutes, stopping on the side track to allow west-bound No. 7 to pass. This train also took water near the bridge which crossed the river just west of the depot. The west-bound train was on time, the other about five minutes late. He brought the welcome news that the rain was over and that a few stars were peeping through the western sky. There was unwelcome news, however, in the statement that the mud was ankle deep from the elevator to the station platform and that the washing out of a street culvert would prevent him from using the wagon.

“I don’t mind the mud,” said Mrs. Delancy, very bravely indeed.

“My dear Mrs. Delancy, I can and will carry you a mile or more rather than have one atom of Lonesomeville mud bespatter those charming boots of yours,” said Crosby cheerfully, and her protestations were useless against the argument of both men.

The distance was not great from the sheds to the station and was soon covered. Crosby was muddy to his knees, but his fair passenger was as dry as toast when he lowered her to the platform.

“You are every bit as strong as the hero in the modern novel,” she said gaily. “After this, I’ll believe every word the author says about his stalwart, indomitable hero.”

To say that Higgins was glad to be homeward bound would be putting it too mildly. The sigh of relief that came from him as he drove out of town a few minutes later was so audible that he heard it himself and smiled contentedly. If he expected to meet the unlamented Harry Brown on the home trip, he was to be agreeably disappointed. Mr. Brown was not on the roadway. He was, instead, on the depot platform at Lonesomeville, and when the westbound express train whistled for the station he was standing grimly in front of two dumbfounded young people who sat sleepily and unwarily on a baggage truck.

The feeble-eyed lantern sat on the platform near Crosby’s swinging feet, and the picture that it looked upon was one suggestive of the cheap, sensational, and bloodcurdling border drama. A mud-covered man stood before the trapped fugitives, a huge revolver in his hand, the muzzle of which, even though it wobbled painfully, was uncomfortably close to Mr. Crosby’s nose.

“Throw up your hands!” said Brown, his hoarse voice shaking perceptibly. Crosby’s hands went up instantly, for he was a man and a diplomat.

“Point it the other way!” cried the lady, with true feminine tact. “How dare you!–Oh, will it go off? Please, please put it away! We won’t try to escape!”

“I’m takin’ no chances on this feller,” said Brown grimly. “It won’t go off, ma’am, unless he makes a move to git away.”

“What do you want?” demanded Crosby indignantly. “My money? Take it, if you like, but don’t be long about it.”

“I’m no robber, darn you.”

“Well, what in thunder do you mean then by holding me up at the point of a revolver?”

“I’m an officer of the law an’ I arrest you. That’s what I’m here for,” said Brown.