"Last night some men came here, two of them, about nine o'clock. They talked a long time in the sitting room, and then Lem went out and hitched up. He came into the kitchen before he went away, and told me he had a chance to sell the rig, and was going to do it, and had to go down to the Sharp Corner to treat the men and close the bargain."

"I see," murmured Bart. "Who were the men, Mrs. Wacker?"

"I don't know. One of them was here with Lem about two weeks ago, but I don't know his name, or where he lives. He don't belong in Pleasantville. Oh, dear!" she concluded, with a sigh of deep depression, "I wish Lem would get back on the road in a steady job, instead of scheming at this thing and that. He'll land us all in the poorhouse yet, for he spends all he gets down at the Corner."

Bart backed down the steps, feeling secretly that Lem Wacker would have a hard time disproving a connection with the burglary.

"Take care of the dog!" warned Mrs. Wacker as she closed the door.

Bart, pa.s.sing a battered dog-house, found it tenantless, however.

"I wonder if Lem Wacker has sold the dog, too?" he reflected. "Poor Mrs.

Wacker! I feel awfully sorry for her."

Bart walked rapidly back the way he had come. It was just a quarter of seven when he reached a half-street extending along and facing the railroad tracks for a single square.

The Sharp Corner was a second-cla.s.s groggery and boarding house, patronized almost entirely by the poorest and most shiftless cla.s.s of trackmen.

Its proprietor was one Silas Green, once a switchman, later a prize fighter, always a hard drinker, and latterly so crippled with rheumatism and liquor that he was just able to get about.

Bart went into the place to find its proprietor just opening up for the day. The dead, tainted air of the den made the young express agent almost faint. As it vividly contrasted with the sweet, garden scented atmosphere of home, he wondered how men could make it their haunt, and was sorry that even business had made it necessary for him to enter the place.

"Mr. Green," he said, approaching the bar, "I am looking for Lem Wacker.

Can you tell me where I may find him?"

"Eh? oh, young Stirling, isn't it? Wacker? Why, yes, I know where he is."

He came out slowly from the obscurity of the bar, blinking his faded eyes.

Bart knew he would not be unfriendly. His father, one stormy night a few years previous, had picked up Green half frozen to death in a snowdrift, where he had fallen in a drunken stupor.

Every Christmas day since then, Green had regularly sent a jug of liquor to his father, with word by the messenger that it was for "the squarest man in Pleasantville, who had saved his life."

Mr. Stirling had set Bart a practical temperance example by pouring the liquor into the sink, but had not offended Green by declining his well-meant offerings.

Bart remembered this, and felt that he might appeal to Green to some purpose.

"Mr. Wacker is not at home," he explained, "and I wish to find him. I understand he was here last night."

"He was," a.s.sented Green. "Came here about ten, and hasn't left the house since."

"Why!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Bart--and paused abruptly. "He is here now?"

"Asleep upstairs."

"And he has been here since--he is here now!" questioned Bart incredulously.

"He was, ten minutes ago, when I came down--" a.s.serted Green.

Bart stood dumbfounded. He was at fault--the thought flashed over his mind in an instant.

It would not be so easy as he had fancied to run down the burglars, for if what Silas Green said was true, Lem Wacker could prove a most conclusive _alibi_.

CHAPTER XVII

A FAINT CLEW

"What's the trouble, Stirling?" inquired Silas Green, as Bart stood silently thinking out the problem set before him. "You seem sort of disappointed to find Wacker here. If you didn't think he was here, why did you come inquiring for him?"

"I knew he came here last night," said Bart. "Mrs. Wacker told me so."

"Do you want to see him?"

"No, I think not," answered Bart after a moment's reflection.

"Then is there anything else I can do for you, or tell you? You seem troubled. They say I'm a crabbed, treacherous old fellow. All the same, I would do a good turn for Robert Stirling's son!"

"Thank you," said Bart, feeling easier. "If you will, you might tell me who was with Lem Wacker last night."

"Two men--don't know them from Adam, never saw them before. Lem drove up with them in his rig about ten o'clock. They took the horse and wagon around to the side shed and came in, drank and talked a lot among themselves, and finally started playing cards in the little room yonder."

"By themselves?"

"Yes. Once, when I went in with refreshments, Wacker was in a terrible temper. It seemed he had lost all his money, and he had staked his rig and lost that, too. One of the two men laughed at him, and rallied him, remarking he would have 'his share,' whatever that meant, in a day or two, and then they would meet again and give him his revenge. By the way, I'm off in my story--Wacker did leave here, about eleven o'clock."

"Alone?"

"Yes. He was gone half an hour, came back looking wise and excited, joined his cronies again, and at midnight was helpless. My man and I carried him upstairs to bed."

"What became of the two men?"

"They sat watching the clock till closing time, one o'clock, went out, unhitched the horse, and drove off."

"I wish I knew who they were," murmured Bart.

"I suppose I might worry it out of Wacker, when he gets his head clear,"

suggested Green.

"I don't believe he would tell you the truth--and he might suspect."

"Suspect what?" demanded Green keenly.

"Never mind, Mr. Green. Can I take a look into the room where they spent the evening?"

"Certainly--go right in."