"Afternoon, sir. You found the house all right?"

"Yes, thanks." Wade drew forth a pencil and tore off a piece of wrapping
paper.

"Sort of out of repairs, of course, seem' it ain't been lived in for
most ten years, not since Mrs. Craig died. Was you considerin'
purchasin', sir?"

"Er--no." Wade was writing rapidly on the brown paper. "The fact is, Mr.
Prout, I own the Craig house now."

"You don't say?" exclaimed the store-keeper in genuine surprise. "You
ain't--surely you ain't Ed Craig?"

"No, my name's Herrick. Ed was a good friend of mine. We were partners
in a mining enterprise in Colorado. Ed died almost a year ago now;
typhoid."

"I want to know! Well, well! So Ed Craig's gone, has he? I remember him
when he was 'bout so high. Used to come down here an' I'd set him up on
the counter right where you be now, Mr. Herring, and give him a stick of
candy. I recollect he always wanted the kind with the pink stripes on
it. An' he's dead, you say? We often wondered what had become of Ed.
Folks thought it kind of queer he didn't come home the time his mother
died."

"He was away and didn't learn of her illness until it was too late,"
said Wade. "He felt mighty badly about that, Mr. Prout, and I wish you'd
let the people here know how it happened. Not that it matters much to Ed