Mr. Sprouse Continues to be Perplexing, But Puts His Nose to the Ground

Suddenly it was broad daylight and the wick in the lantern smelled horribly. He popped from the bed, rubbed his eyes, and then dashed out in the hall, expecting to come upon sanguinary evidence of a raid during the night. To his amazement, there were no visible signs of an attack upon the house. It seemed incredible that his defection had not been attended by results too horrible to contemplate. By all the laws of fate, she should now be either dead or at the very least, frightfully mutilated. Something like that invariably happens when a sentinel sleeps at his post, or an engineer drowses in his cab. But nothing of the sort had happened.

Mr. Bacon, sweeping the front stairs, assured him between yawns that he hadn't heard a sound in the Tavern after half-past ten,--at which hour he went to bed and to sleep.

Barnes was at breakfast when Peter Ames called up. An inspiration seized him when the chauffeur mentioned the wholesale exodus: he hired Peter forthwith and ordered him to report immediately,--with the car. He was going up to Green Fancy for Miss Cameron's "boxes."

Whether it was the fresh, sweet smell of the earth that caused him to saunter forth from the Tavern, and to adventure across the road to the foot of the great old oak, or the ripening of spring in his blood, is of no immediate consequence here. He had no reason for going over there to lean against the tree and light his after-breakfast pipe,-- unless, of course, it be argued that the position afforded a fair and excellent view of the window in Miss Cameron's room. The shutters were open and the low sash was raised.