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 "No, sir-ree! Your car, my dear Frank, I am happy to tell you, is by this time twenty miles over the county line whirling on its way to Pleasantvllle. Hip, hip, hurrah!"

"See here, Markham," said Frank, seriously, seizing his friend's arm in an endeavor to cure his jubilant antics. "What have you been up to."

"Me? Nothing," declared Markham, assuming the vacant bumpkin look he expressed so well when he gave a character delineation. "It's old Dorsett's emissary who was up to something—up to the wrong car, see? He has tacked that attachment notice onto a poor innocent old car filled with ballasting cinders. Never mind now. I'll tell you later. Don't miss the train, Frank."

There were hurried good-byes to their kind-hearted neighbor. Frank and Markham, each carrying two satchels, piloted Mrs. Ismond to the railroad station.

Just as the train came in from the south a man drove past the depot platform. He drew up his horse with a jerk. It was Dorsett.

He stared in amazement at the departing trio. Then suddenly, as if suspecting some trick, he got out of his gig and hurried across to the train.

Frank had got his mother to a comfortable seat. The coach window was open.