The sheriff leaned close. "I figured to bluff him into telling which way
the hobo went. Mebby he'll talk later."

Waring smiled. "You have a free hand so far as I am concerned," he said.

Alice Weston was talking with her mother when she heard a cautious step
on the stairway behind her. She turned her head slightly. Lorry, booted
and spurred, stood just within the doorway. He had something in his
hand; a peculiarly shaped bundle wrapped loosely in a newspaper. Hardy
was talking to Waring. The undersheriff was standing close to Waring's
horse. Alice Weston had seen the glint in Lorry's eyes. She held her
breath.

Without a word of warning, and before the group on the veranda knew what
was happening, Lorry shot from the doorway, leaped from the edge of the
veranda rail, and alighted square in the saddle of Waring's horse, Dex.
The buckskin whirled and dashed down the road, one rein dragging. Lorry
reached down, and with a sinuous sweep of his body recovered the loose
rein. As he swung round the first corner he waved something that looked
strangely like a club in a kind of farewell salute.

Alice Weston had risen. The undersheriff grabbed the reins of the horse
nearest him and mounted. Hardy ran to the other horse. Side by side they
raced down the street and disappeared round a corner.

"What is it?" queried Alice Weston.

Waring still sat on the steps. He was laughing when he turned to answer
the girl's question.