The Mystery Megapack

the capture, and I could use it.”
    Twice that night, Weston rose from his bed and peered out into the darkness; and once he made out the shadowy figure of Larkin as he stole cautiously down the road, making no more noise than an Indian, and keeping to the edge of the road where the cedars cast a protecting gloom.
    Neither Frank nor his wife slept well, although greatly eased in their minds by the presence of alert watchers, armed to kill. It was Jason Hodge’s dog which was responsible for their insomnia. Every little while he broke into astonishing howls and ululations, sounds that it did not seem as if his wizened body could give voice to. The animal was uneasy in a strange place, irked by being tied up, and doubtless aware of the passing guards. There was less reassurance in his warning bark than there was annoyance to the would-be sleepers, Both were tired and irritable when they sat down for breakfast next morning; and Annie insisted that the dog be led back to its owner that very day.
    “Every time he wakes me up I jump a foot!” she declared. “I might as well be murdered, as scared to death!”
    Hodge ambled past during the forenoon; and Weston returned the dog with thanks and explanations.
    “He keeps my wife awake with his howling. And now that there are guards posted—man named Larkin has this section to cover—we don’t really need the dog.”
    Hodge nodded understandingly.
    “Guess that’s right. Tige would warn ye if the bandit come near; but he’s bound to make just as much fuss over a passing guard, or a rabbit, or a skunk. He means well, but he talks too much. If he wan’t such a good coon dog, I’d shoot him. He’s spoiled a deal of sleep for me, too!”
    CHAPTER III
    A STRANGER
    Before dusk fell that afternoon, there was plenty of evidence that the countryside was astir. Where hitherto there had been almost complete isolation, the road was now alive with men on foot, in rackety secondhand cars, and on horseback. Here and there an expensive make of automobile drove past, filled with those whom curiosity had drawn from Allsworth, and even as far away as Bangor. There were reporters and camera men among the rest. The sandy highway began to take on the aspects of a thriving town street.
    Weston reflected that almost any one of the men who straggled past, some of them pausing to gape at him as he lounged smoking a pipe in his doorway, might be the murderous bandit who had strangely enough chosen this quiet, law-abiding and by no means wealthy neck of the woods for his assaults and depredations. They were all strangers to him, save the three or four men and one woman he had come to know. But there was comfort in their very numbers; and although toward twilight they thinned out, and finally disappeared save for the solemnly parading sentry, Larkin, Weston and Annie both retired that night without any fears. They were careful to lock everything fast downstairs, and the loaded automatic rested under Frank’s pillow. He wished that he might practice with it a little; but the sound of shots would certainly bring a lot of excited and inquisitive men to their little house. He believed that he had mastered the mechanism, and that he wouldn’t in an emergency forget to slip the safety catch. But there wouldn’t be any emergency; of this he felt sure. With morning, word would probably come that the bandit had been captured.
    Instead of which, morning brought Jed Hooper and his wife, Lizzie, with news of a fresh outrage. The masked man, eluding all the trackers, had broken into an unoccupied summer cottage five miles down the shore, ransacking it. The owner had been notified; until he arrived, it was impossible to say just how much had been stolen. Lacking any human victim, the bandit had sated his bad temper on the furnishings. A costly radio set had been wrecked; rugs and pictures were slashed, glass and china broken.
    “Course, we don’t know for sure that it’s the same man,” Hooper admitted, “but it’s reasonable to s’pose it is. ’Tain’t likely there’s two sech wild men runnin’ loose about Fast Harbor! He’s a loony, says I, and cunning as a weasel, like crazy folk is apt to be. A criminal lunatic. Sheriff Thomas has found some faint footprints at two of the places, and measured ’em; but that don’t amount to nothing till we find some shoes to fit ’em to—and some feet in the shoes! It looks like he hid out in the cottage a night or two. One of the beds has been