It was Saturday morning. Nothing had occurred during the three intervening days worth recording. Mattie Sowers was still hovering between life and death, such a true balance that the least furtherance at the adverse side, the balance would tilt.

The people of Brookland were astir early, especially Mr. Sowers, for apart from his devotion for his daughter, nothing was on his mind but the detective, the man that was to expose him. But he did not know it—he did not know that the detective that was coming was the identical man he told Wilse to                . I will not say what he told Wilse to do. It was not a kind act. As soon as Sowers got his breakfast, he went to Winchester and stayed until the ten o’clock train came. As soon as the train “slowed,” he was gazing eagerly into the passenger car. He saw an elderly man get out, but that was not his “beau ideal” of a detective. He was looking for a keen looking man. Will this detective going to [sic] be keen enough for him? Time will tell.

He was startled a little when the elderly man gave him a slight tap on the shoulder and said: ÷ “This is Mr. Sowers, I presume?”

“Yes, I am the man that they call Sowers. What is your business with me?” said Sowers stiffly.

“You sent for me. And more, you must not talk so loud. You must not let anyone know that I am a detective,” the detective said slowly.

“How am I to prevent it?” inquired Sowers.

“Well, here,” said the detective, as he drew a note out of his pocket. “Here, take this and have those words telegraphed to New York immediately. I have made it all right there.”

Sowers read the note. There was [sic] only a few words written. They were those: ÷

I have concluded that it won’t do any good to send a detective so don’t send him.
          J. Sowers

After he had attended to this he went home, he and the detective, whose name was Kent. The detective whiled away the whole day trying to pick up “clues,” as they term it. He found no clues that day. The next day was Sunday, and of course he attended church with Mr. Sowers. He had to do so as he had been entered at Brookland as one of Mr. Sowers’ New England friends. Well, Sunday passed and other days went by, as it seemed, in quick succession. In fact, it was the eleventh day of April, the day that Mattie’s fate was to be decided, the day that the balance was to tilt either one way or the other.

What an anxious look was in those parents’ eyes. How eagerly they watched for the fatal moment when the balance would tilt.

The change came at last—the invalid smiled! Oh, how that mother’s heart beat, how her lips sent up fervent thanks to Heaven for the change in her child. Dr. Maltby was standing at the bedside. A smile of satisfaction rested on his bronzed face. He looked around at the anxious faces of all present and said in a confident way:

“Now I call myself a skillful physician. I leave to yourselves the opportunity of contradicting my assertion.” As he ceased speaking, Mr. Sowers advanced to him and said in a trembling—yet fervent—voice:

“I can shape no words to tell you how much I owe you for saving my daughter’s life.” The old man clasped the doctor’s hand and shook it fervently. Tears stood in his eyes. His athlete-frame shook with emotion. He could hold his peace no longer:

“Oh Doctor, I have erred greatly all my life. My whole life has been one fatal error and those I have—” He paused again. He could not say the words he had intended to say. We will not dwell upon those scenes long. Let it suffice for us to say that Mattie’s recovery was very slow, but she mended day by day, and time wore on. The month of April passed away, and we again pick up the thread of our story on the first of May.

Mattie was sitting at her window on this fine morning. She had not left her room since that fatal night when she was stabbed.

She looked beautiful as she sat there, her raven locks hanging far down her back. She was very pale, yet beautiful.

Dr. Maltby came in to see her about ten o’clock that morning. His orders were she should not leave her room for some time yet. Although a month had passed since the opening of our story, no clue had been found of the intended assassin. Kent was a shrewd man, but this was a puzzling mystery to him.

Albert King had not been seen or heard of. William Reed had not been heard of. In fact, the absence of Al King and the silence of William Reed seemed ominous.

Why should Al King absent himself? Or, what was his motive for so doing?

Well, the detective’s conclusion was that Albert King was the intended assassin.

Was his conclusion correct? Was Albert King hiding as a fugitive from the law?

Wilse Reed always shunned the detective. Kent was a jealous detective. He had searched every inch of Frederick and Clarke counties, it seemed, and he paid particular attention to Ash Hollow. He went there every day of his life.

Ash Hollow is in Frederick County about four miles from Winchester, and the Berryville Road goes through this Hollow. At the time of which we write, this Hollow was infested by robbers, robbers that would not hesitate to murder a man for money or other valuables.

Well, to return to the subject, Kent was sorely puzzled as he sat on the porch at Mr. Sowers’ conversing with that personage.

“Well, Mr. Sowers,” said Kent despairingly. “I never was so puzzled in all my life. Here it is the first day of May, and I am no more in the light than I were when I first came.”

“No, I thought you were more shrewd than you are,” said Sowers dryly.

“I am no more shrewd than you dream I am,” said the detective meaningly.

“Whether you are shrewd or not, I know you have been a good while trying to pick up a clue, and you are no further than you were at first,” said Sowers bluntly.

“Now Sowers, I don’t want any such talk as that here. I have done all I or anyone else could do, and I tell you that before I leave Virginia, you will think I can find a clue to anything I want to. You’ll find me out, I tell you, before I leave your premises,” Kent said sharply.

“Well, don’t get excited, Kent,” said Sowers. “I won’t talk so anymore.”

“All right, all right, Mr. Sowers, we will not fall out about this little parley.” After a short pause, Kent added, “I have other ends to serve yet.” They soon parted. Kent went over to the mill, as he was very fond of talking to Hugh Walters. He found Herbert Armstead at the mill. They all went into the office and seated themselves. They then began conversing on first one topic and then another. Finally the conversation turned to William Reed.

“Herbert, I think we had better ‘Go West,’” said Hugh laughingly. “Well,” he added, “we might do splendid, don’t you think so, Mr. Kent?”

“Yes, you young people might do pretty well,” answered Kent.

“This is Thursday, the first day of May,” commented Herbert languidly. “I would like to hear from William about now. He has been gone one month tomorrow. I hope he’ll not stay away much longer.”

“Ah! My friends,” said the detective drawlly. “If William has got his fortune to make, you will not see him soon, I tell you.”

“He said he would go to California if he could get a chance,” replied Herbert. “We will let him go at that for the present.”

None but the most trustworthy portion of the inhabitants of Brookland knew that David Kent was a detective. Herbert and Hugh knew that he was a detective. There was a short silence, and during the interval the detective mused thus to himself:

“I am thoroughly convinced,” thought he, “thoroughly convinced that this Joshua Sowers is my man. I have seen him before under auspicious circumstances. I was convinced on the day of my arrival that I had my man.” He ceased his misty meanderings and said aloud to his companions:

“This Al King is a mystery to me. Why he should keep himself hid is more than I can understand.” Wilse Reed entered at this juncture and also Mr. Sowers. This gentleman seated himself near the window and said: ÷

“Why, Kent, you seem melancholy today. What’s the matter?” Kent didn’t know that Wilse Reed knew he was a detective, so he said:

“I don’t feel very well today. I think I had better go down to Jordan’s Springs and get a good drink of Sulphur Water.” So saying, he rose and took his leave. As he left the room, he gave one swift but keen glance at Wilse.

Wilse quivered with fear! Kent got a horse and started off for Jordan’s Springs, a springs well known to pleasure seekers throughout Virginia. We will accompany him to said resort and back. He rode along slowly, musing all the time.

“Well, I have three ends to serve,” said he. “Sowers don’t know me but I know him. Know him,” he repeated. “Why, I know him to a T. And—well, I won’t be over-confident about one of the ends I have to serve.” He rode on for some distance in silence, though his mind was full of theories. Finally his thoughts came to words again:

“Yes, that other personage is my prey too. I was sent as much for him as anyone else.”

Reader, here is a space for you to form theories. Who did Kent allude to when he said, “That other personage was his prey”? Some theory can be formed from that sentence.

Well, we will follow the New Englander as the Virginia people called Kent. He took a good drink of sulphur water, as he said he would, and then seated himself on a rustic bench. He fell to musing again. It was a pretty, very pretty May day. The birds in the park at Jordan’s were warbling their beautiful, enchanting notes. Anyone who had nothing to bear on their [mind] could enjoy the scene—Kent took no notice of it. He was thinking of home and friends he had left at his New England home.

“I must accomplish what I came for,” said he, as he carelessly surveyed the scenery at his leisure. “I want to see the wronged righted before I leave Virginia. I don’t like the place very well. Every time a colored person speaks to me, it’s ‘Marse Kent.’ I don’t like it myself.” He rose and, mounting his horse, rode off toward Brookland. He soon arrived there and Jack was ready to put his horse away.

“Marse Kent—” began Jack, but he was cut short by Kent saying:

“Look here, my good fellow, you will please to call me Kent. It suits me better.”

“Well, Marse, I has no dejecshuns, only de white folks,” said Jack humbly.

“Well, I don’t want to meddle with you or your master’s business, but I don’t want to be called ‘Marse’ anymore, if you please. The word is disgusting anyway,” said Kent, and he looked disgusted.

He went in and ate his dinner, as it was dinner time. Sowers was at the table when he entered. “We are waiting for you, Mr. Kent,” said Sowers as he looked up from the table when Kent entered.

“Yes sir, like one hog waits for another,” said Kent, and added he: “The words are not complimental, but as we are old friends”—with a slight wink—“I hope you will not take notice of it.”

“Oh no, all jokes are free on the first day of May,”^[1] said Sowers laughingly.

“Like to the Roman actor who of old wore the false mask so long his features took the impress of the bronze,”^[2] repeated Kent to himself as he took his seat at the table. Herbert Armstead was there on that day, as he was still looking for Albert King, he said.

“How is your daughter?” asked Kent.

“She is feeling pretty well today, thank you,” answered Sowers. After a few moments’ silence, Mrs. Sowers said: ÷

“I think it would be advisable to take her to some one of the Springs—Rockbridge Alum, for instance.”

“Yes, it would be advisable,” said Kent as he rose from the table. He eyed Wilse again suspiciously. He walked close up to Wilse as they went down through the yard.

“I think we have met before,” said he in a low voice. There was an air of bravado in Wilse Reed’s voice as he said:

“Very likely.”