gathered about the machine, looking at it. I asked them some
questions about the village, and happened to say,--

"I once knew a man who, seventy-five years ago, lived in that
little stone building by the bridge."

"That was in Morgan's time," said an old man, and every one in the
crowd turned instantly from the automobile to look at me.

"Yes, he lived here as a young man."

"They stopped at this very tavern with Morgan on their way
through," said some one in the crowd.

"And that stone building just the other side of the bridge is
where the Masons met in those days," said another.

"That's where they took Miller," interrupted the old man.

"Who was Miller?" I asked.

"He was the printer in Batavia who was getting out Morgan's book;
they brought him here to Stafford, and took him up into the
lodge-room in that building and tried to frighten him, but he wasn't
to be frightened, so they took him on to Le Roy and let him go."

"Did they ever find out what became of Morgan?" I asked.

There was silence for a moment, and then the old man, looking
first at the others, said,--