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“Arrest me?” exclaimed Crosby in great amazement. “What have I done?”

“No back talk now, young feller. You’re the man we’re after, an’ it won’t do you any good to chew the rag about it.”

“If you don’t turn that horrid pistol away, I’ll faint,” cried femininity in collapse. Crosby’s arm went about her waist and she hid her terror-stricken eyes on his shoulder.

“Keep that hand up!” cried Brown threateningly.

“Don’t be mean about it, old man. Can’t you see that my arm is not at all dangerous?”

“I’ve got to search you.”

“Search me? Well, I guess not. Where is your authority?”

“I’m a deputy marshal from Dexter.”

“Have you been sworn in, sir?”

“Aw, that’s all right now. No more rag chewin’ out of you. That’ll do YOU! Keep your hands up!”

“What am I charged with?”

“Attempted horse stealin’, an’ you know it.”

“Have you a warrant? What is my name?”

“That’ll do you now; that’ll do you.”

“See here, my fine friend, you’ve made a sad mistake. I’m not the man you want. I’m ready to go to jail, if you insist, but it cost you every dollar you have in the world. I’ll make you pay dearly for calling an honest man a thief, sir.” Crosby’s indignation was beautifully assumed and it took effect.

“Mr. Austin is the man who ordered your arrest,” he explained. “I know Mrs. Delancy here all right, an’ she left Austin’s with you.”

“What are you talking about, man? She is my cousin and drove over here this evening to see me between trains. I think you’d better lower your gun, my friend. This will go mighty hard with you.”

“But—“

“He has you confused with that horse thief who said his name was Crosby, Tom,” said she, pinching his arm delightedly. “He was the worst-looking brute I ever saw. I thought Mr. Austin had him so secure with the bulldog as guardian. Did he escape?”

“Yes, an’ you went with him,” exclaimed Brown, making a final stand. “An’ I know all about how you come over here in Scott Higgins’s wagon too.”

“The man is crazy!” exclaimed Mrs. Delancy.

“He may have escaped from the asylum up north of here,” whispered Crosby, loud enough for the deputy to hear.

“Here comes the train,” cried she. “Now we can ask the train men to disarm him and send him back to the asylum. Isn’t it awful that such dangerous people can be at large?”

Brown lowered his pistol as the engine thundered past. The pilot was almost in the long bridge at the end of the depot when the train stopped to wait for the eastbound express to pass. The instant that Brown’s revolver arm was lowered and his head turned with uncertainty to look at the train, Crosby’s hand went to his coat pocket, and when the deputy turned toward him again he found himself looking into the shiny, glittering barrel of a pistol.

“Throw that gun away, my friend,” said Crosby in a low tone, “or I’ll blow your brains out.”

“Great Scott!” gasped Brown.

“Throw it away!”

“Don’t kill him,” pleaded Mrs. Delancy. Brown’s knees were shaking like leaves and his teeth chattered. His revolver sailed through the air and clattered on the brick pavement beyond the end of the platform. “Don’t shoot,” he pleaded, ready to drop to his knees.

“I won’t if you are good and kind and obliging,” said Crosby sternly. “Turn around–face the engine. That’s right. Now listen to me. I’ve got this pistol jammed squarely against your back, and if you make a false move–well, you won’t have time to regret it. Answer my questions too. How long is that bridge?”

“I–I do–don’t kno–ow.”

“It’s rather long, isn’t it?”

“With the fill and trestle it’s nearly half a mile.”

“What is the next stop west of here for this train?”

“Hopville, forty mile west.”

“Where does the east-bound train stop next after leaving here?”

“It don’t stop till it gits over in Indiana, thirty mile or more.”

“I’m much obliged to you. Now walk straight ahead until you come to the blind end of the mail car.”