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 My informant assured me that the Colonel's face took on a look of decomposed woe when he heard this news. He gasped for breath, and complained about the sultriness of Chicago climate, while a sickly, castor oil smile played around his features.

To think, after he had become reconciled to the fact that his bird had flown, that the Marshal should have had the utmost disregard for the fitness of things by sending her on that long journey accompanied by a man of fully 65 summers, and the Lord only knows how many winters! It was preposterous, and he would look into the matter.

"He will never land her there!" ejaculated the Colonel vehemently, "Never, sir! never! You ought to have sent at least two, if not three, of your best men back with her. Captain, or else have waited until I got here—-you should have known that I was coming for her," he added sorrowfully, and once more his countenance assumed a mournful expression.

It made him sore to think that he should have made the trip all the way from Portland only to learn that Mrs. Watson had passed him while en route, and might even now be in the "Rose City," providing she had not been rescued from the law's clutches by a desperate gang of land frauders, headed by the notorious Puter and McKinley.

Several days after Colonel Greene returned to Portland, the question of his whereabouts became a topic of serious consideration around the United States Marshal's office. He had been traced to Chicago, and the dispatch from that point was very emphatic in the declaration that he had left there on the very evening of his arrival, presumably for the Oregon metropolis. This was a week ago, but no Col. Greene had put in an appearance. Could anything have happened to him? was the question of the hour. Some were inclined to believe that either Puter or McKinley—and perhaps both—were responsible for his absence, while others were unkind enough to hint that he might have been kidnapped by Marie Ware, and it was even suggested that the Government should put sleuths or bloodhounds on his trail, with a view of ascertaining the facts.

The truth came out at last, when one of his intimates gave the whole snap away. The Colonel felt so sore on account of having had his labor for his pains, that when he got back to Portland he was afraid to face the music, and had virtually crawled into a hole and pulled the hole in after him. In other words, he had sought the seclusion granted by his private apartments, and was not at home to anybody until after the affair blew over.

After my interview with Mrs. Watson at the Imperial Hotel, I concluded to call on my attorney, Mr. Mays, but hesitated in doing so, as I knew that he would hold me responsible for her capture and blame me accordingly in the absence of any knowledge of conditions. With this thought in mind, and being in no humor to invite his displeasure and consequent reprimand, I remained away from his office until the second day after my return, and felt greatly relieved, when I did call, to learn that he had just stepped out. Shortly afterwards, however, I called again, this time to find him engaged in conversation with a client, and apparently too busy to confer with me, which situation, I was pleased to observe, required that I should retire and see him upon a more propitious occasion. I had remained long enough to break the ice, and that was all I could expect under the circumstances.

The next morning I found him alone and apparently waiting to see me, so putting on a bold front in the consciousness of being blameless so far as Mrs. Watson's capture was concerned, I seated myself with perfect indifference to fate, and was prepared to face the music.

It came soon enough, for I was hardly comfortably settled in one of his big easy chairs before he had whirled around from his desk and fixed his eyes steadfastly upon me, as if endeavoring to subdue me with his majestic glance. "How did you come to make such a botch of that job?" was his first question, after a moment or two of this sort of bluff. Page 121