possession. He was arraigned, his character was impeached by plain-clothes men who had seen him with Weasel Morrison, and Briggs would not give his real name because he wanted to save his wife and child from disgrace. He was sent to the penitentiary for five years—under the name of Luther Briggs. That innocent man, Mr. Ruthven, was Arlo McKenzie."
It was a simple recital, told in a voice broken with emotion.
Ruthven was astounded. "You—were sent to prison!" he exclaimed; "and for a crime you did not commit!"
"That is the truth, Mr. Ruthven," declared McKenzie earnestly, solemnly. "I was the victim of a fiendish plot. My wife died while I was in the penitentiary, and a brother—who believed me guilty and chose to abandon me—gave a home to Lois, provided for her as for his own child, and even sent her to Vassar College. When I came out of prison, I was bitter against the world. It would have been easy for me, then, to take the downward path, but Lois"—his voice was almost reverent—"became my mainstay. I came to Burt City, assumed my right name, and went to work at my trade. Later, Lois came on and joined me. Fortune has been kind. I have prospered in business and been honored politically, and the name of Arlo McKenzie is one with integrity and honor. But after this evening I shall be branded as an ex-convict, and black disgrace will cover me and mine."
His strong hands clenched spasmodically on the chair arm, although a fire of defiance burned in his eyes.
"This will not be!" breathed Lois quiveringly. "You will not be made to suffer for a wrong you never committed! Father, you have borne enough—you will not be asked to bear more!"
"I shall face what I must, and hope for the best."
"And is that all Morrison has against you?" asked Ruthven. "Just because you refused to help him in his criminal work, has he"
"Just a moment, please!" McKenzie interrupted. "A little more than a week ago I received a box of oranges from some unknown shipper. Inside the box was a package and a letter. The package contained tools. This is the letter. I want you to read it." He passed the white sheet to Ruthven, and the latter read:
- You've turned straight, I hear, and so has wily Nate, the flimflammer. Now I can use you, and if you breathe a whisper against me I can pull down your honors and emoluments like a house of cards about your ears. I want to send the inclosed tools to Dry Wash; and I dare not keep them in my possession, as an officer is after me. To be caught with them will spell disaster. And I guess you won't care to have them around, either. Nate Wylie is freighter for Thomas Barton, the cattle baron, at Dry Wash. He travels between the ranch and town. Wylie is no friend of mine, and would do nothing for me, but you have done him a good turn, and he would do anything for you. Send these tools on to him a week from Tuesday or Wednesday, by express, and tell him to keep them under cover until they are called for. Warn him that if he doesn't do this, I will smoke him out, and you, too. I don't care how you arrange the matter, just so it covers the work. I will be on Seventeen, that passes through Burt City at eleven a.m. one week from Wednesday. Be at the station to get word to me as to what you have done. Fail in this, and all Burt City shall know you for what you are. W. M.
Here was a fiendish threat, a double-edged sword suspended by a thread over McKenzie by the machinations of Morrison. It was like the scheming scoundrel, as Ruthven knew him.
"What did you do?" asked Ruthven, in a low voice.
"I was frantic," answered McKenzie. "What could I do? Morrison had found me out, and not only myself but poor Nate Wiley as well. Wiley and I were prison mates. When Wiley got out, after doing his time, he wrote to me, declaring that he was 'going straight' and wanted an honest job. I got it for
