a catch in the girl's voice.

The man slouched off the porch, a peculiar smile on his lean, shrewd
face. One hand, thrust into his ragged coat pocket, rested on a
letter there. As he felt it beneath his fingers, his crafty eyes
brightened with a gleam of mockery.

Mrs. Peabody may have been curious about Bob's departure, but she
asked no questions, somewhat to Betty's surprise.

"I'm glad she doesn't ask me," thought Betty, helping mechanically
in the preparations for dinner which were more elaborate than usual
because of the presence of the three balers. "Bob must be half way to
Washington by now, and I don't believe they have the slightest idea
he is headed for there." The Peabodys, she reasoned, knew nothing of
Lockwood Hale, and of the attraction the capital of the country held
for the orphan lad.

Betty insisted on doing a fair share of the extra work after the
noon meal, and then ran upstairs to get ready to go over to Glenside.
She wanted to tell the Guerins that Bob had gone, and from their
house she knew she could telephone to those other good friends, the
Benders. Laurel Grove was too far to walk, even for a practised hiker
like Betty.

To her dismay, as she left the house, Mr. Peabody joined her and
fell into step.

"I'll go as far as Durlings with you," he announced affably, Durling
being their neighbor on the south, his farm lying along the road in