He stopped short.

"What's the matter?" asked Billy Getz nervously.

"Run the boat in there," said Philo Gubb excitedly. "Those verdures ain't _like_ 7462 Bessie John; they _are_ 7462 Bessie John."

The Sheriff stared keenly at the spot indicated by Detective Gubb's extended hand and, turning suddenly, said a word to the pilot in the house at his side. The ferry veered and ran in toward the island. Not until the boat was nearer the sh.o.r.e than a front row of the orchestra seats to the back drop of a theater did the others on the boat understand. Then the trick was seen and understood. The trees of the sh.o.r.e were not all trees. One group was a painted canvas, copied carefully by Greasy from Dietz's 7462 Bessie John at the behest of Billy Getz. Stretched across a small indentation of the sh.o.r.e it made a safe screen, unrecognizable a few rods from the sh.o.r.e, and behind this bit of painted forest they found the long, low, black pirate craft--Billy Getz's motor-boat.

When the Sheriff had torn down the canvas and his men had hoisted and heaved the pirate craft to the broad deck of the ferry, Billy Getz was gone. Riverbank never saw him again, and a half-dozen of his roistering companions also disappeared completely.

"Sometimes occasionally," said Philo Gubb, as the ferry turned toward town, "the combination of paper-hanging and deteckative work is detrimental to one or both, as the case may be, but at other occasional times they are worth one hundred dollars."

"That's right!" said the Sheriff suddenly. "You get that reward, don't you?"

"Most certainly sure," said Philo Gubb.

HENRY

Philo Gubb entered his office and placed on his cutting-table the express package he had found leaning against his door. With his tr.i.m.m.i.n.g-knife he cut the cord that bound the package. It contained, he knew, the new disguise for which he had sent twenty-five dollars to the Rising Sun Detective Agency's Supply Bureau, and he was eager to examine his purchase, which, in the catalogue, was known as "No. 34.

French Count, with beard and wig complete. List, $40.00. Special price to our graduates, $25.00, express paid."

Mr. Gubb wore a face more solemn than usual, for he had just had bad news. He had hidden his distrust of Mr. Medderbrook, the father of his beloved Syrilla, and had carried that gentleman the one hundred dollars he had earned by aiding in the capture of the river pirates, but he had found Mr. Medderbrook close to tears.

"Read this, Gubb," Mr. Medderbrook said; and that he was deeply affected was shown by the fact that he did not ask Mr. Gubb to pay any part of the cost of the telegram from Syrilla which had, this time, come "Collect." The telegram read:--

Scared crazy. Resumed vegetables and all kinds of food, eating steadily all day and night, but have lost twenty-five pounds more. Now weigh only one hundred and twenty-five and going down rapidly. If worse goes to worst, love to Gubby.

It is not surprising that Mr. Gubb sighed as he lifted the exaggeratedly thin-waisted frock coat from the package, but there came a tap on the door and he hastily covered the coat with the wrapping paper and turned to the door.

"Enter in," he said. And the door opened cautiously and a short, ruddy-faced man entered, peering into the room first and then closing the door behind him as cautiously as he had opened it.

"Are you this here detective feller?" he asked bluntly.

"I am Mister P. Gubb, deteckating and paper-hanging done, to command at your service," admitted Mr. Gubb. "Won't you take a seat onto a chair?"

"Depends," said Mr. Gubb's visitor, keeping his hand on the doork.n.o.b.

"I'll put it to you like this: Say some guy stole something from me, and I was willing to pay you for finding out who stole it and for getting it back--you'd take a job like that and say nothing about it to anybody, wouldn't you?"

"Most certainly sure," agreed Mr. Gubb.

"That's the idee! You'd keep it dark. It wouldn't be n.o.body's business but yours and mine, would it? It would be a quiet little deal between you and me, and n.o.body would know anything about it. Hey?"

"Exactly sure," said Philo Gubb. "The deteckative business is conducted onto an absolutely quiet Q.T. basis."

"Correct!" said his visitor. "I see you and me can do business. Now, my name is Gus P. Smith, and I've had one of the rawest deals handed me a man ever had handed him. I was coming along down one of these alleys between streets this morning and--"

He stopped short and turned to the door. Some one had tapped on the panels. Mr. Smith opened the door the merest crack and peered out. He closed it again instantly.

"Somebody to see you," he whispered. "What I've got to say I want kept private. I'll be back."

He opened the door and slipped out, and as he went a second visitor entered. The newcomer was somewhat tall and thin, and his hair was long, so long it fell upon his shoulders in greasy curls. He wore a rather ancient frock coat and a black slouch hat, and a touch of style was added by his gray kid gloves, although the weather was average summer weather. His face was thin and adorned by a silky brown beard, divided at the chin and falling in two carefully arranged points. He closed the door carefully, first looking into the hall to see that Mr.

Gus P. Smith had disappeared.

"Mr. P. Gubb, the detective?" he asked.

"Most absolutely sure," said Mr. P. Gubb.

"My name," said Mr. Gubb's visitor, "is one you are doubtless familiar with. I am Alibaba Singh."

"Pleased to meet your acquaintance," said Mr. Gubb. "What can I aim to do for you?"

Mr. Alibaba Singh brought a chair close to Mr. Gubb's desk and seated himself. He leaned close to Mr. Gubb--so close that Mr. Gubb scented the rank odor of cheap hair-oil--and whispered.

"Everything is to be strictly confidential--most strictly confidential. That's understood?"

"Most absolutely sure."

"Of course! Now, you must have heard of me--I've made quite a stir here in Riverbank since I came. Theosophical lectures--first lessons in Nirvana--Buddhistic philosophy--mysteries of Vedaism--et cetery."

"I read your advertis.e.m.e.nt notices into the newspapers," admitted Mr.

Gubb.

"Just so. I have done well here. Many sought the mysteries. I have been unusually successful in Riverbank." He stopped short and looked at Philo Gubb suspiciously. "You don't believe in transmigration, do you?" he asked.

"Not without I do without knowing it," said Mr. Gubb. "What is it?"

"Transmigration," repeated Alibaba Singh. "It--Hindoos believe in it.

At death the souls of the good enter higher forms of life; the souls of the bad enter lower forms of life. If you were a bad man and died you would become a--a dog, or a horse, or--or something. You don't believe that, do you?"

"Most certainly not at all!" said Mr. Gubb.

"I--I teach it," said Alibaba Singh uneasily. "It is part of my teaching."

"You don't aim to believe nothing of that sort, do you?" asked Mr.

Gubb as if he could not imagine any man so foolish.

"Now, that's it!" said Alibaba Singh. "That's why I came to you. All this is strictly confidential, of course? Thanks. I can speak right out, Mr. Gubb? I have in the past taught some things I did not absolutely believe."

"Quite likely true," admitted Philo Gubb.

"We--we occulists get carried on by our eloquence," said Alibaba Singh. "We--we go too far sometimes. Far too far! I admit it. I admit that frankly. When our clients reach out to us for more and more, we--we sometimes go too far. I won't say we string them along. I wouldn't say that. But we--we lead them farther than we have gone ourselves, perhaps. You understand?"

"Almost absolutely," said Mr. Gubb.

"Just so! Mr. Gubb, one of my clients was greatly interested in transmigration of souls--greatly interested. She was interested in all things mystical--in reincarnation; in the return of the spirits of the dead; in everything like that. I--really, Mr. Gubb, it was hard for me to keep up with her."